An Awesome Pile of Trash
by calzones
Summary: This AU begins with the scene at the tree and blooms off in the direction of Chloe realizing Rachel Amber isn't who she's pretending to be. When Max returns from the future to warn them about the Dark Room, Chloe knows something has to be done if she wants to save this mysterious drama queen. Or maybe her death does more good than harm... (I don't own any characters/quotes)
1. Chapter 1

**An Awesome Pile of Trash**

Chloe regrets what she said—and even more than the things she said, she regrets the way she said them. She kept practicing it over and over again on the walk home: what she would say to Rachel if she ever got the chance. Which she hopes with an unusual desperation that she _will_ get to say… because if she doesn't…

Chloe can't imagine a world where those scrutinizing, hazel eyes aren't blinking up at her through a knowing smirk.

She decides she'll start with "Rachel, I'm an idiot" and see where it goes from there. Possibly an "I'm sorry I ever doubted you" and an "I can't bear to think of my life without you" might escape her mouth… but she hopes not. She really… _really_ hopes not. There's a certain line that a phrase like that might cross… and while Chloe is normally very much into crossing lines, this isn't one of the easier ones to come back from. That fact isn't lost on her (at least not as completely as her mind is lost in thinking about Rachel). She knows for a fact that there will come a time when she has to make a crucial decision about what to say to the drama queen… and she'll either have to put everything on the line and tell the truth, or deny the unyieldingly cruel fact that butterflies have made a permanent nest in the part of her stomach that hears "Rachel Amber" and bursts into flame.

Maybe flame isn't the right word.

But something about her is definitely violent… and something about her is definitely blindingly beautiful.

"God, you're gorgeous," she'll say.

Wait.

No.

No, she won't, in fact. At least she hopes she won't. And now that she thinks about it, Rachel _isn't_ all that beautiful. At least… not the Rachel who stormed off in the junkyard—the Rachel who Chloe had gotten excited about and wanted to impress—and who had promptly ruined the place that seemed like a second-hand heaven. Maybe the Rachel who twirled around in her Prospera costume and smirked into the mirror at Chloe in the dressing room… turned Chloe's hand over and over in her own on a train, and who told two truths and a lie…

Or maybe _all_ lies.

Regardless, Chloe had played the game by the rules: told exactly the right amount of truths, told exactly the right amount of lies… she even got that stupid quarter that started the mess with the princess losing her temper. Just after that shining moment of "Too far?" … "I don't know" and "Nice Rachel we're having."

Nice Rachel, indeed.

But Chloe decides that _this_ Rachel is _not_ nice. This Rachel is awful. She doesn't care about anyone or anything. This is the smashy Rachel that doesn't even let smashing be fun. And there's nothing left to do when the smashing stops being fun because _this_ Rachel says hurtful things and then leaves… like everything leaves. And Chloe can't take much more of that type of person. Not since the great betrayal of 2009 that sent her privateer partner to more Pacific pastures. Maybe there's a part of Chloe that wants Rachel to want to be the new Max, and that's why it's so hard for her to leave the past in the laundry with that dirty old pirate towel. Maybe Chloe needs a new partner in crime, and that's she's taking her anger with Max out on the only person in the world who might actually understand what it's like to lose the innocence of being able to hug her father… press her face into his chest and feel safe in the knowledge that there's nothing he can't do.

Rachel Amber.

Drama queen.

Princess.

Prospera.

Bitch.

No, no. Not bitch. Chloe wants to think it, but can't quite bring herself to mean it entirely. But she can try, at least for now. She's allowed to be mad, right? She's allowed to think she was slighted. She can't really say for sure what it is she lost out on, but it's definitely at least a friendship.

Definitely.

Maybe.

Well… they've only just met.

But it could have been more.

Or maybe all it was, like Rachel said, was… a pile of trash. Though Chloe was pretty sure Rachel meant the junkyard… she might also have just meant Chloe, herself. A pile of trash, indeed. But an awesome pile of trash. Right? Chloe, the awesome pile of trash: sea captain, adventurer, music thrash-ist, and… class-skipper-with-Rachel-Amber-ist. Class-skipper-on-her-own-ist. Weed-smoking, wine-stealing, car-punching… possibly-Rachel-liking… mannequin-smasher-ist. Maybe not so awesome after all, but nobody needs to know that. For a brief moment, before she leapt off that train and into the arms of the unknown, Chloe had, indeed, been awesome. And as much as she had also taken it away just as quickly, Rachel had given her that: a brief, shining "Too much?" … "I don't know…" moment of imagining this as something more than just the pile of trash it probably is.

That "I don't know" rolls over in Chloe's head again and again. For sure, it wasn't that Rachel had said it. It wasn't even the words that caught Chloe on fire. Lots of people say "I don't know" when they _do_ know. It was more the _way_ Rachel had said it. It wasn't a "yes" and it wasn't a "no"... and it certainly wasn't an "I don't know".

It occurred to Chloe even then that the drama queen had said exactly what she meant… because at the time, Rachel _didn't_ know. But she also didn't mean to say that she didn't know. Not knowing has an indefinite way about it.

Rachel meant "I'm waiting for you to show me."

Chloe could've taken it as a test if she liked, but she doesn't like, and the more she thinks about it, the less she wants to be tested by Rachel "princess" Amber: the girl who's used to getting what she wants. Chloe wonders what that must be like, but she doubts she'll ever have reason to find out.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket.

Chloe picks her head up off the warm metal of the railroad track and digs through her ripped jeans to find her phone. It slips through the tear in the front of her denim leg and clacks onto the wooden cross beam. From the lit screen, she can already tell it's a text from the princess herself. A rather cryptic text at that: "Meet me by the tree where it happened."

Where _what_ happened?

Where they were trailing past in the train and Chloe told Rachel her first lie? Where Chloe had stood just a little too long looking at a poster of The Tempest with Rachel Amber's face glowing through that typical Rachel smirk? Where Rachel had said goodnight after the Firewalk concert by the old mill… turned… and walked off into the night? Where Rachel's mood had gone from "Nice Rachel we're having" to "Last I checked, you were Chloe Price"?

Chloe hopes that's not the tree.

Anything but that tree—that tree is cruel. That tree has a memory that stretches back all the way to a time when there was a possibility of Chloe looking at Rachel and not feeling knives in her chest.

And then there's that burning… the butterflies…

Chloe is confused. She knows how she wants to feel: she wants to feel unbothered by the fact that she was picked up, cracked open, and then dropped like an empty nutshell in a single afternoon. She wants to not feel so disarmed by the tempting forbidden fruit that is the drama queen—fifteen years old and already more ubiquitous at Blackwell than water. And water's been working for centuries.

Yet… there is something about that smirk. It knows everything. It wants everything. It's shameless, the pouting lips of a girl who gets what she wants. Rachel Amber: breaking hearts and confusing sexualities since 1994. What a piece of work.

And still Chloe is making her way back to the park. To the tree with the memory. She begs her feet to stop moving, but the fire burns hottest when it's headed towards that tree, and nothing can put it out tonight. The moon is a sliver in the twinkling Oregon sky, glittering in the smattering of stars peeking through the occasional cloud. Chloe wonders if Rachel knows which constellation is the lion. Of course she must. People who love stars are bound to know that sort of thing, especially if it means they get to talk about it on a train while touching your hand... which happens to be scarred by a skateboarding fall… not punching a bitch out over a YooHoo.

So Chloe walks. She just walks and tries her best not to think about how horrible this meeting might actually be. She tries not to think about those hazel eyes and how hurtful their gaze could become the instant they weren't getting what they wanted. And they were usually getting what they wanted.

It takes her what feels like forever to get back to that horrible tree in the park. At first she thought it was the tree by the trashcan… to the left of the fountain… but, well… no, it had a big hanging branch, sort of like—ah! That one there! No… wait a second. The leaves were the wrong shape. And now that she's standing under _this_ tree… she feels like it's not quite right. It's a park… full of trees… how is she supposed to pick the right one? She can't see the viewfinder over the ridge to figure out which direction she's supposed to be heading in, so she just wanders off into the dark, too afraid to ask Rachel which tree. If she cares about Rachel, she'll _know_ which tree. And she _does_ care about Rachel… doesn't she?

At least… she thinks she does. Something makes her hope she doesn't, but she thinks she does anyway.

Through the darkness, she can make out the shape of a thin line wavering in the distance… a thin girl shifting agitatedly from leg to leg, trying to find a position to stand in that doesn't make her look like an idiot when Chloe shows up.

Chloe doesn't remember seeing this side of Rachel Amber on the train. That Rachel seemed unapologetic and sinfully self-assured, to the point where it was difficult to know who Chloe had really been talking to: the actress, or the girl. But this Rachel seems much more uncomfortable in her ripped jeans and faded flannel. There's a nervous energy that pulses out from where she stands at the foot of—well I'll be damned—the tree where that man was macking hard on that skinny blonde chick.

Chloe moves closer to the tree until Rachel is almost close enough to touch.

"You came," Rachel says, her voice wavering and her back to Chloe. "I'm glad."

"Are you sure about that? I got kind of a different message this afternoon."

Rachel looks, even in the dark, like she's been crying. She lets out a simple, "Yeah," and pauses, trying to think of something to say that isn't the truth, but that's as close as she can come without it sounding unreal.

"Chloe… I wanna talk to you about something, but…" she pauses. Chloe can see her struggling to put down the tiara and say what's on her mind. "I don't know how to talk about this."

Rachel turns to look at her, and Chloe isn't sure what to say. She might've said "It's okay, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to" or something comforting, like "Don't worry, you don't have to explain it. I'm not mad about what happened earlier." But in truth, Chloe _is_ mad. She's annoyed and she doesn't want to say something helpful right now. She wants let the princess blubber about in her own mistake until the silence fizzles out and the two of them are left standing in the embers. An awesome pile of embers.

But Rachel speaks again, ruining Chloe's spiteful silence: "You remember that guy we saw under this tree with that... woman?"

"The ones who were making out?" Chloe asks.

She regrets that almost instantly as Rachel goes on to say, "That was my dad."

"Oh…" Chloe says. "Alright…"

"And that… _woman_ … was definitely not my mom."

She sounds dumber than a box of nail clippings, but all Chloe can manage is a stifled little, "Oh…" and nothing more.

"And the worst part is," Rachel goes on, "I'm not surprised. I've felt like my dad's been lying about something for a while… I just… I didn't know what it was. So when I saw that he got a text from an unknown number, asking if they could meet… I thought I could catch him or something…"

"I'm… so sorry, Rachel," Chloe says. She hopes she means it. "I don't know what to say."

She means that she feels bad for thinking so many awful things.

"Neither do I," Rachel says.

Something about the princess shifts when she speaks again.

"Chloe… I love my dad. I love him, and… I never wanna see his fucking face again."

For the first time, Chloe is afraid of Rachel. She isn't sure what to say. There are layers to the grudge on Rachel's face… layers of "working late" and "it's no one" on the phone. But anger… Chloe can work with anger. Chloe can work with smashy.

"When my dad died, I was so mad at him," Chloe says. "For months, I felt… wrong. Because half the time I thought of him, I wanted to scream. And the other half… I forgot…"

"Forgot that anything had changed?" Rachel asks.

A light flickers out for Chloe.

Yes. She often used to forget anything had changed. She forgot her soulmate ducked out on her nearly every day back then. And then she would remember… and the cracks would widen again.

She knows better now.

Rachel reaches into the chest pocket of her blue flannel and pulls out a tattered square.

"It's silly, but I've carried this photo around with me for years," she says. "It's from Mount Hood. My Dad took me hiking there when I was ten. It started raining, and I fell and broke my arm three miles from the car. I remember screaming like I was gonna die, but my Dad… he carried me down the mountain. I still remember the smell of his coat… and how calm he was. And the sound of his voice…"

Everything about William rushes back to Chloe… she can almost see him through the trees… warning her not to get too close to the flames.

"He was just so strong, you know?" Rachel says. "And… I felt safe."

Chloe realizes Rachel handed her the photo some time after pulling it out of her pocket… but she can't determine how long she's been looking down at it and seeing her own face instead of Rachel's.

"You trusted him," Chloe says lamely. She can't tell if she's talking about herself or about Rachel anymore.

"Completely."

Chloe hands back the photo, the impression of the girl's face burned into her retinas.

"Chloe, I owe you an apology."

"Hey, we both were kinda the queen of shitty…"

"No, I mean it," Rachel says. "Whatever's between us, it's… intense. And new. And awesome, and… you had the courage to tell me that you feel it, too. And I treated you like shit."

"Courage?" Chloe says, wanting to laugh, wanting to undermine the fact that Rachel Amber just admitted to liking her back so Rachel wouldn't take it away again… "I don't know if I'd call it that. More like blind desperation… and maybe the wine—"

"I just want you to know that I'm lucky you were with me today. You're a badass, Chloe Price."

"What?"

"Remember that biker asshole who wouldn't let you into the mill? You talked your way right past him."

"You… you saw that?"

"And those skeevy douchebags who followed you upstairs? You dropped that one guy with a knee to the balls."

"Only because _you_ showed up at the last minute and—"

Rachel reaches for Chloe's face. A gentle caress of her thumb send the coverup on Chloe's cheek smearing out of the way of the purple welt from the "skeevy douchebags".

"See?" Rachel says. "You're the real thing. You came with me today, no questions asked."

"I don't need to know where we're going to know it'll get me out of Chemistry," Chloe admits.

"I guess tomorrow there'll be hell to pay," Rachel says.

"My Mom might forego a good grounding in exchange for manual labor… or maybe the death penalty… though pain and suffering seems a more fitting punishment for a well-spent afternoon of gallivanting…"

"I've never really done anything like this before. I wonder if my Dad'll even know what to do with me. I don't think he knows punishments exist outside the courtroom."

"Fuck your Dad," Chloe says.

"Fuck him," Rachel replies, almost a whisper.

"What I wouldn't give to leave this place and never look back."

A glint shines clear through Rachel's tears and Chloe senses mischief returning in the form of that cheeky little smirk.

"Well what's stopping us?" Rachel asks.

"I was kidding," Chloe says. "I mean sort of… not really, but—"

"There's nothing keeping me here," Rachel says. "I skipped school—I'm practically an outlaw now."

"Are you serious?" Chloe asks.

"Why not? Let's do it. Let's pack our bags—tonight."

"Um… okay, but—"

"No buts. We're refugees… on a quest."

"What kind of quest?" Chloe asks.

"One that takes us home."

"I… kinda like the sound of that," Chloe says. Her heart is racing. There's nowhere on earth she'd rather be than the open road with Rachel "princess" Amber. She's eight again, bouncing around the backyard with Max with a paper towel tube sword, screaming "ARRRGGGGH!" at the top of her eight-year-old lungs.

But Rachel's face is calm, her voice even… her gaze fixed on the photo in her hands.

"Chloe, can I borrow your lighter?"

Chloe's heart sinks. The racing screeches to a halt and everything feels quieter somehow. She isn't sure what noise she was hearing before, but it's gone now.

"Um… yeah, sure," she says, producing the lighter.

Rachel thanks her flatly and wanders over to a nearby trashcan, her eyes never leaving the photo.

And then she lights it.

First the corner…

Then, satisfied with the results, the edge…

Then she holds onto it for a minute, and Chloe can tell she's waiting for her father's face to catch.

And then she dumps it, burning, into the other garbage…

The whole can is alight in seconds.

The two of them stand there for what seems like forever, both acknowledging and not wanting to acknowledge what's happening. Both scared… both mesmerized by the orange flicker consuming Rachel's memory… both wanting to reach into the trash and bring out something beautiful.

"Come on," Chloe says. "Let's go."

With the silence broken Rachel seems like a different person entirely. She moves slowly at first… and then—

A sharp kick to the trashcan topples it, spreading the flames to that hideous low-hanging branch. The memory tree is ablaze. The world is glowing with fire. An unearthly scream like nothing Chloe has ever heard before pierces the smoldering air as a thick gust of wind carries the fire through the branches of the tree like burning hair off a scalp.

Rachel is on her knees.

Chloe tries to hold onto her, but there is a moment where she can't feel her arms anymore. She can't feel Rachel in them… she can't see anything but fire, and the panic becomes a sensation more lifelike than touch. She hopes she is going through the motions of holding Rachel's pieces together before they go spilling out onto the grass, but she isn't sure her arms are wide enough. She isn't sure there aren't holes burnt clear through her insides to her skin from the butterflies trying to escape.

She understands now that those butterflies aren't love. That burning isn't passion. That fire there isn't hope for a life with a girl who can finally admit to liking Chloe back.

Those butterflies are fear.

And that fire draws them in.

A part of Chloe escapes with the ashes strewn about in the wind, carried off with the gray shards of Rachel's father and childhood. She can't see the princess anymore, only this huddled little child balling in the grass. When Chloe can finally feel her feet again, she staggers to them, propping Rachel on her shoulder, unable to remember the girl from the train or the dressing room. This is Rachel now: this un-smashy, very-much-smashed-herself fountain of misery flowing from the flames and coughing in the smoke and ash. Chloe wants very much to reach into her and pull out something beautiful… but as she carries Rachel away from the fire and the cloud of wind-whipped leaves, she realizes that the fire _is_ the beautiful something.

The anger.

And Chloe understands anger.

"Are you okay?" Rachel manages finally when they are far enough away from the smoke to stop the coughing.

Chloe doesn't dare look over her shoulder at the spreading glow. She looks down at Rachel who is starting to walk more on her own, wondering what a word like "okay" could possibly mean at a time like this.

Rachel might be asking "Are you physically injured?" or "Did I scare you?" or even "Do you still wanna run away with me tonight?". Chloe can't answer any of those, though. She isn't sure. And a person should be sure before committing to something that could mean something they don't mean for it to. She'll be sure later, she knows. She'll know more when she can feel her hands again, or when she doesn't smell smoke on her clothes.

"Chloe?" Rachel asks again. "Are you okay?"

"Well… I don't know," Chloe says.

And it isn't so much that she says it that makes Rachel's face crease with a frown. It's the _way_ she says it. It's not an "I don't know" as in "I have no idea". It's an "I'm waiting for you to show me."

So as the two make their way through the park to the Amber House, Rachel is filled with exactly one determination: the events of today have been beautiful… and awful… and terrifying… and… she isn't sure how to categorize them. She can't think clearly enough to even begin. They've been… a pile of trash, she decides. A scary, dangerous, smashy, horrible... awesome... pile of trash.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Price for Everything**

She's actually really pretty when she isn't throwing a tantrum about not getting her way, Chloe thinks.

Wait a minute. What does _THAT_ mean? She's _ALWAYS_ getting her way. Chloe concedes that maybe not everything in Rachel's life is as perfect as it seems. She must have some discipline at home that keeps her out of the principal's office, right? Because discipline and a strong father figure keep people out of trouble. A good… strong… male… mustache. She means male figure, not mustache. Male figure. At home. Alive. Sleeping with their mother. That's good for people in ways Chloe can't possibly understand.

It barely occurs to Chloe to think what sort of people the Ambers must be until she's staring up at the warm wooden shingles of their house. The squat stone pillars of the porch are coated in buttery yellow foyer light that spills through the stained glass french doors. And Chloe tries hard to think about what sort of people have a stained glass front door. Rich people? Sentimental people who really like the look of a stained glass tree? Or maybe just… very private people. Now that Chloe thinks about it, there's nothing wide open about the DA's daughter. She's a lot like the house. Both are lovely with a comforting sort of face that can easily be trusted, but it dawns on Chloe that she can't see through a single window. On the house… or on the girl. The curtains are all drawn over the glass to keep away prying eyes, and the act seems quite deliberate.

Like the act of skipping school, which Chloe can be sure Rachel has never done before. Not even for a midday concert at the mill. Or a smoke break. Or a snack. Or… anything, really.

What will the DA think of 2.0 Chloe showing up on his front porch with his school-skipping daughter in tow? Not in tow. In arm. Slung across Chloe like a messenger bag clinging to her shoulder, arms around her as if the delinquents have merged together into a formidable, two-headed beast. Maybe it's best not to be here when the door opens. Chloe wants to lean Rachel against the leafy little potted plant on the porch and bolt, but Rachel's hand is wound tightly into the shoulder of Chloe's shirt and won't be wiggled loose. It's like she knows Chloe could disappear at any moment, and Rachel won't be left alone. Not without her saying so.

Chloe plods cautiously up the sidewalk, passing the little yard lights that trim the edges of the grass and hoping none of them have actual flames in them.

If she's not careful, she could start a fire.

A column of smoke rises behind them as the two make their way closer to the porch. They take it slow, but they don't really need to. Rachel can stand on her own. In fact, she's been able to walk quite well for a while now. But maybe she just… doesn't want to. Not just yet. Her eyes are red from smoke and crying and her eyeliner has smudged for the worse, but she feels safe for the moment… and maybe just this moment alone, but that's enough for now.

Of course Chloe still thinks she's pretty.

No, pretty isn't the word. Pretty seems wrong—ugly, or abusive somehow. Chloe can't think of the word she means… the only thing in her mind now is the tendril of burning park behind them… climbing up into the deep black night.

Chloe is afraid that the smoke is all she'll ever be able to see again when she looks at the drama queen, and that time by " _the tree"_ when Her Royal Highness set fire to all of Arcadia Bay.

The forest is made of one-match tinder, and Rachel Amber has a six alarm fury.

Pretty doesn't describe a girl like that. But it'll have to suffice for now, because before Chloe can find a better word, they've reached the front door.

They both stare at it, neither willing to believe that it's actually there and as close as it is. It happened slowly, but that isn't how it feels. The walk here was long and much of it involved stumbling through the dark underbrush at the edge of the park. But following the train tracks back to the road that leads past Blackwell seems like it took only seconds.

And now the touching has to end.

"So… this is it," Chloe says.

To tell the truth, she doesn't know _WHAT_ to say. "This is it" seems to have been the wrong choice, though, because Rachel doesn't reply. There's something about the silence that suggests she's trying to prolong the moment before she has to put her key in the lock and push apart the shield of stained glass that keeps the Ambers separate from the rest of the world.

"Do you… wanna go inside?" Chloe asks..

"No..." Rachel says. "Not really."

"Tomorrow's gonna suck, isn't it," Chloe says.

"Hella suck."

There is regret in Rachel's laugh. When she lets go of Chloe's shirt and stands herself upright, another silence follows that might just extend this particular moment clear into the morning. And Chloe thinks she might like that, actually—if the princess never left. She might like to see enough of her to make any other person sick. She might very much like to fold back time and peel away those moments at the park to reveal the fleshy underbelly of sitting on the train with Rachel Amber… and live in that fading sunlight forever.

The princess lifts the corner of the doormat with her shoe and kicks the spare key out from underneath.

"Rachel…"

"Don't," Rachel says. "Whatever you do, don't tell me goodbye."

"I wouldn't," Chloe says.

"I'll see you later," Rachel tells her.

"Yeah… later…"

Chloe makes a conscious effort not to tell Rachel about the texts from her mom:

 _I got a call from your principal._

 _There'll be hell to pay._

While there are plenty of things populating the pit of confusion in her stomach from the day's events, Chloe is certain of that much at least: there _WILL_ be hell to pay. Everything good always comes at a tremendous cost. Her friendship with Max was the best thing that had ever happened to her… until it ended. Her dad… seeing his car today was too surreal. It was the opposite of closure in every way that a thing can be. Every wound was opened all at once, leaving Chloe more positive than ever that she would bleed to death before her fists made contact with the hood.

And then there's Rachel Amber. Her outing with Rachel may have already cost Arcadia Bay half its forest, if not more, and Chloe isn't sure she likes who she becomes when Rachel is around. Is Rachel really a good thing? She can't say for sure, but she _CAN_ say that bad things are faster with Rachel. They're easier. They're more natural in every way, and more satisfying. And Rachel Amber seems to like it when Chloe does bad things. And is it really all that "bad" if Princess-do-no-wrong is egging her on from the sidelines with her Jedi mindtricks?

You _WILL_ get on this train.

You _WILL_ open the viewfinder.

You _WILL_ steal that wine.

You _WILL_ meet me at the tree where it happened.

And you _WILL_ take the blame for it all.

Is it possible that perhaps the most popular thing, in this case, isn't the best one—that Rachel herself… isn't what Chloe needs right now? She can admit to having the best day of her life since her dad died today… up until a point. Are a few moments of bliss worth the price she knows she will inevitably have to pay for them? What is the value of a good day anyway? What's the value of a scholarship to a school you don't want to attend? What's the true value of a friend who can't even answer a text once in a while? What's a relic of the past beyond a sad, empty reminder that things are gone and over?

Rachel gives Chloe one long last look, the way you might eye someone who's going away for a very long time… and Chloe knows the good in Rachel can't be all there is.

Everything has a price.

Everything is paid for in one way or another.

Maybe Rachel pays for her good fortune in ways Chloe can't understand—and doesn't want to. No one is that popular by sheer circumstance, and no one is pretty for free. Maybe all her owings are to be paid at some later date… like a loan that's gathering interest with every unburdened breath the princess manages to take.

"You're coming to the play tomorrow, aren't you?" Rachel asks.

"It's… I don't know, it's not really my style."

"Suddenly I'm not Chloe Price's style?" Rachel says, that familiar smirk crossing her face. It's homey almost… like it belongs there more than any other expression. It knows everything. It wants… everything. And it knows Chloe wants it, too. It knows that Chloe sees it and melts.

"That's gotta be against some kind of Rachel Amber rule, right?" Chloe says.

"I'm just surprised," Rachel says with a shrug.

She puts her key in the lock and gives it a quarter turn.

"Maybe next time," Rachel says nonchalantly.

Chloe can't tell if she's faking or not, but she supposes that's the point. Damn actors.

"We'll see," Chloe says.

"I guess we will."

And with that, Rachel disappears behind the stained glass tree, leaving Chloe to walk home alone. Why had she said she wouldn't go to the play? Was it some desperate act to try and regain at least a semblance of control over her own actions? Was she trying to push Rachel back into the dark after opening up too much in the junkyard? She isn't sure.

But she knows she _WILL_ go to the play.

One way or another, she can be sure about that.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket.

When she flips it open, she sees the text from an unknown number:

DON'T TAKE THE BLAME. DON'T LET RACHEL DRINK THE TEA.

Chloe looks around in the dark. Whose number is this? Her heart starts to race and she can feel it pounding in her ears. Blame? What blame? What tea? She types back hastily:

"Who is this?"

She leans against a nearby car to wait for a response, but a long time passes with only the sound of crickets fleeing from the burning park. She can't hear the blaze, but she can see the black plume rising from the furthest ridge against the horizon.

What if this person thinks Chloe will be blamed for the tree? What if someone saw Rachel light the fire? It was dark… maybe it looked like Chloe did it. Maybe no one would believe she _DIDN'T_ do it… it would be Rachel's word against Chloe's, and Her Highness would certainly win. Sure, Chloe wants to believe Rachel wouldn't try to pin it on her, but life's not that simple, she decides. She starts heading back home, eyes glued to her phone, waiting for a response. Anything. Who is this?

A message bubble appears:

GET OUT OF THE STREET.

Chloe hears a car horn blare and looks up just in time to slam herself against the nearest parked van on the side of the road as the headlights rush past.

What the fuck?!

She can feel the sweat beading up on her forehead. Who the hell is watching Chloe Price? She looks over her shoulder at the Amber house, now just a warm yellow glow in the distance. It couldn't be Rachel, could it? Just another mind game?

She types hurriedly, misspelling a few things, but getting her point across as best she can with the tools she has:

"Hwo the hell didyou know i was in the streett?!"

She walks the whole way home without a reply, but it doesn't stop her from wondering how she'll have to pay for whoever is trying to help her. Or… she _HOPES_ they're trying to help her. All she can do to be sure is lie her way through tomorrow and avoid tea like the plague.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Morning After**

Once through the front doors of her house, Rachel heaves a sigh. She didn't realize a day like today could ever feel so long. It started off normal, completely inane like every other day. Yet here she is, plowing through the underbrush to get to a main road so she can stumble home attached to none other than Chloe Price—who apparently has feelings for her? They've known each other for all of two days and suddenly Chloe has a nougaty center under her rock solid turtle shell? Rachel doesn't think so.

But Rachel has been watching Chloe for a while now. It was no coincidence they ran into one another at the mill. Rachel wasn't necessarily "following" Chloe that night… but if Chloe had stayed home, Rachel might not have been out at all. She had actually asked Chloe a few times what she would be up to that night, but only on the last time did she get an honest answer. Of course Rachel rewound the whole thing to make sure Chloe wouldn't be suspicious of Rachel being there, but it was one of the rare moments Rachel was actually disappointed to get rid of. Chloe had opened up and trusted her with something she was passionate about… and then had promptly lied about having permission to go and about having lots of weed that she intended to bring to the concert and might possibly share with Rachel… but that's not what matters. Chloe trusted somebody she barely knew with something intimate: her love of music.

Rachel knew then that, even though that particular moment had been erased from Chloe's mind, it wouldn't be erased from her personality. She was capable of it once, and she'd be capable of it again. All Rachel had to do was be patient… and wait. After all, she'd met Chloe at least a hundred times before the school-skipping incident… and rewound every one of them. The first time they met, it was in the hall outside Chloe's chemistry class. Rachel spilled Chloe's soda all over her shirt when they bumped into each other.

Definitely not how you want to meet someone.

The next time, it was when Victoria Chase put gum on Chloe's seat in the gym during an assembly. Chloe, gum stuck all over her ripped jeans, had punched the shit out of Victoria, and was promptly escorted off school property by Skip. Rachel couldn't let happen, especially because it was Rachel who gave Victoria the gum in third period… or at least… she did the _FIRST_ time. She happened to "have just chewed her last piece" the next time Victoria asked for something to get the foul aftertaste of her spinach and peanut butter breakfast smoothie out of her mouth.

The time after that, Chloe tripped taking the stairs two at a time on her way to Steph's dorm room and Rachel caught her… the third or fourth time. That's when she started to realize that maybe it was her job to protect Chloe Price. But someone like Chloe would hate knowing somebody was taking care of her. She's stubborn and gets herself into messes to feel something, and Rachel knows better than to compete with the fire inside Chloe that makes her do reckless and dangerous things. So she dropped hints for Eliot, and he got to be the one to keep her from busting her lip on the concrete.

Chloe sometimes makes Rachel want to do reckless and dangerous things, too.

Like be found out while trying to save Chloe's ass.

Or burn down all of Arcadia Bay.

Or kiss someone she knows is retaining little fractions of their meetings… never fully erasing the muscle memory of bumping into each other time and time again.

It might not seem so, but of course Rachel wants to be kissed. And maybe even by Chloe, she isn't sure, but she definitely wants to know what it's like exactly with someone who she can tell cares about her. But maybe Chloe only cares about Rachel because they've spent so much erased time together. Rachel has to admit, though, that Chloe might not be the best option when it comes to saving people and keeping them so close. Though she does _like_ Chloe, she isn't sure she's good for someone so touched by tragedy.

Rachel herself _IS_ a tragedy.

She knows very well that she's a get-what-she-wants type of girl, and Chloe seems like the type to give her a hard time. Maybe she likes that about Chloe. Nobody ever tells Rachel "no" because the princess can do no wrong. Chloe isn't like that, though. She has no trouble putting Rachel in her place from time to time.

Rachel had spent the whole walk to her house from the burning tree thinking about how convenient it would have been for Chloe to put Rachel in her place before that trash can wound up on its side. That whole thing with the fire… God, that got out of hand fast, didn't it? She wanted to kick the trashcan over for effect… and there it went, the whole park up in smoke so fast it made her head spin.

In a way it was exhilarating. It was electric to watch something burn. Rachel knows it's wrong, but she's certain she doesn't want to rewind this time. She _deserves_ this feeling. In every timeline, in every universe, Rachel _deserves_ to feel the flesh of another living thing erode by her own power.

But she knows she has to. She has to rewind the entire day. She's done some unforgivable things, and there's certainly no cause to keep a botched evening alive. And then, of course… there are things she _didn't_ do that she might have liked to.

She has to stop herself from kissing Chloe at the front door. Rachel is pretty sure she doesn't want to yet—not because she isn't attracted to Chloe… but because she knows the urge is fleeting. Adrenaline, she guesses. She doesn't want to go too fast and screw up something later. And besides, it isn't fair that their first kiss should be something only one of them gets to remember. Besides, Rachel might have only be feeling the secondhand energy of it from Chloe revealing her own feelings in the junkyard, and Rachel's natural instinct is to feed that… to _act_ on it. If she waits, she might be able to say without question that it was entirely what she wanted. Maybe once she's safely up to her room, she'll stop thinking about all this nonsense and clear her head enough to rewind.

Nonsense. That's exactly what this is. And there's no reason to focus on something so utterly devoid of reason… right?

Yet even in the dim light of her star globe with no one else around, she can't stop picturing Chloe: her voice, her laugh, her awkward gate as she lulled beside Rachel towards the highest point in the park… the fear in her eyes when she felt like she was ruining something beautiful in the junkyard.

 _Don't think about her, Rachel. Don't think about her. She's kindling._

Maybe she'll sleep it off and rewind in the morning. Things might go smoothly tomorrow… who knows? Probably not… but she can always go back. For now, she'll just try her best to keep her head cool and her thoughts free of Chloe Price.

* * *

Chloe locks her bedroom door. Her phone is both the silent villain and the bygone hero, striding between worlds at the whim of this tea-fearing savior. Funny how she doesn't want to text an all-knowing being because she doesn't want to seem desperate.

But she _IS_ desperate.

She needs to know who this person is and what they want and why they're trying to help her… or if they're actually trying to help her. Maybe they're keeping her safe for some greater purpose… only to let her down at some other predetermined moment when an ordinary person might need saving most. Maybe in the morning she'll have more answers. Maybe Rachel will own up to watching her from the Amber House as she wandered off into the dark. Rachel might've sent those texts. Who knows? She's the DA's daughter, right? A burner phone would be easy enough to acquire.

She can't think about that now, though. She needs to get some sleep before she bites the bullet in Principal Wells' office for skipping today. But of course she's too wound up to sleep. Her eyes won't close longer than a blink, and long before the sun starts to rise, she can hear Joyce downstairs in the kitchen making breakfast for herself before work.

Chloe's stomach growls. She can't remember eating yesterday. Did she?

The front door to clicks shut behind Joyce and Chloe knows it's safe to venture downstairs. She doesn't go right away, though. She looks down at her phone, hoping to have missed a text from the unknown number while lost in thought, but there are no new messages—not even from Eliot, who is always texting her when she least wants him to. It's even worse that she has no new messages from Rachel, though: the one person she might actually tell about the strange texts… the one person who might actually believe her. Now that she thinks about it, it couldn't be Rachel sending her weird messages. Why would Rachel warn Chloe about tea? Does Rachel know something? Is tea a metaphor? What the hell would it be a metaphor for? Who even drinks tea anymore? She decides to google it, as any self-respecting person would.

It doesn't occur to her how long she's been researching tea until she starts to see the sun peeking over the trees.

She closes her laptop on a page about the healing properties of jasmine.

The hallway leading to the kitchen is lit only by the faint glow of orange coming from the small windows at the top of the front door and the warped glass panels to the left of it, but Chloe is guided by the fading smell of diner food. A plate of bacon and eggs sits on the counter covered in plastic wrap and labeled "C" with a Sharpie.

She looks down at the breakfast with more guilt than she thought possible this early in the morning. Despite the fact that Chloe ignores her texts, blows off school, sneaks out, lies about nearly everything, and constantly shits on her shitty boyfriend, Joyce still tries. Chloe feels like a human pile of garbage—and definitely not an awesome one.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket.

It's Joyce.

"Work might run long. Beth running late to cover shift. Meet you there ASAP."

Chloe checks the clock on the microwave: 7:38AM.

Time to start making her way to Blackhell.

She looks back at the texts from the unknown number:

 _DON'T TAKE THE BLAME._

Chloe wonders if Rachel has done something. Besides lighting the tree on fire, maybe there's something she's hiding that she might try to blame on Chloe. But Rachel isn't that type of person… right? She's good and kind and… an actress. A very, very good actress.

Who may or may not be in serious danger because of jasmine tea.

Chloe decides she's an idiot for trusting Rachel. Anyone with that much talent could fake liking Chloe for an afternoon. It'd be hella weird if she _wasn't_ faking it. Nobody looks at someone the way Rachel looked at Chloe on the train after one evening of knowing each other. Nobody touches a stranger that much. Nobody admits to liking you back.

Chloe sighs.

Can she really blame herself for it, though? Rachel is good at what she does. She's probably the most convincing actress Chloe's ever met, although she hasn't met very many. Maybe that's what drew Chloe to Rachel: she was different… because she was fake. Rachel wanted to skip school, and Chloe happened to be there when she opened the front doors of Blackwell that morning. It could just as easily have been Victoria or Justin or Steph or anybody, really.

But it was Chloe.

And even though it might not have been real, she's glad. It was still the best day she's had in a very long time.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Very Talented Actress**

Chloe's phone buzzes.

She hopes to God (or Buddha, or Shiva, or Gruumsh, or fucking Jimmy Page) that it isn't Joyce telling her she's late already. She's sweating and jogging down the sidewalk towards Blackhell, hoping to Whoever that she isn't late because she missed that damn bus again. She digs for the flip phone and manages to open it without slowing down.

Her heart throbs painfully.

It's Rachel:

 _R U Ok?_

Chloe swallows hard. Is she okay? She really isn't sure. She's… well, she's sweating, first of all, which is never good after not having showered two days in a row, she's broken into a jog, which is nearly never something she makes an exception to her "no running without being chased" policy for, and she's probably late. Again. Is Chloe Price "Ok"? Maybe not. Maybe seeing the whole park go up in flames last night is a pretty clear indicator that no human being in Arciadia Bay _SHOULD_ be "Ok" at this point. Or maybe being possibly betrayed by Rachel Amber (according to mystery meat on the "unavailable" helpline) in the near future—if not already—is a pretty clear indicator that she definitely is not "Ok".

Though… she's alive. And she knows a few people who can't say that, so...

Either way, she's got nine minutes to decide.

No, checking the time was a mistake. Now she knows exactly how little time she has to get to the main campus, across the lawn, through the main doors, down the hall, around the corner… no wait… around the corner… down the hall… fuck. Whatever it is, her feet know that walk better than her 8:00AM brain, and she knows nine—no, eight—minutes is not enough time!

She texts back:

 _Running late, see you soon?_

Damn it. She didn't mean to type a question mark. Rachel replies:

 _Can't wait. Missed you_

Chloe blinks down at her phone.

WHAT?! Rachel said… she…? No way. Chloe scrolls back up to make sure she didn't type something else. Nope. Just a sad string of meaningless words and a typo question mark. Rachel… misses her?

No, that can't be right. Rachel must mean "Yeah, see you soon" or… or maybe… "Late again, Chloe Price? Typical". Shit. No, Rachel wouldn't say something like that. But Rachel wouldn't say something like "Missed you" either, so…

What is Chloe thinking? She doesn't know how Rachel texts. She has no idea what sort of things a girl like Rachel "princess" Amber would say, think, do… or even type by accident. Or maybe even on purpose…

 _WHACK!_

Chloe trips on the first step up to the courtyard outside Blackhell and her phone goes flying. She feels arms hoisting her to her feet almost immediately and scrambles to look and see who witnessed the disaster. She's relieved it's only Skip, who makes an offhand comment about meaning to have Samuel look at that step—it's been a bit uneven for the past few months. Chloe knows he's just trying to bury the accident, and that the step is perfectly squared off and level, just like everything else at Blackhell. But she appreciates it anyway.

She thanks him quickly and rushes onward towards the front door, where—

"Chloe! There you are, you weren't in chemistry yesterday… what happened?"

"Not now, Eliot," Chloe says. "I've gotta get to the office before my mom—"

"You weren't skipping again, were you?" Eliot asks, standing in Chloe's way.

At first, Chloe thinks his stance isn't threatening… but when his arms cross over his chest and his brow furrows, she senses something entirely different from her overly-enthusiastic friend. Eliot is the one who always wants to do something. He always has ideas, he always texts Chloe first, he always pays for the concerts and the band tees and the newest Firewalk album so he can have an excuse to come over and listen to it with her. He's Mr. Let's-go-to-The-Tempest-together and "oh, wouldn't it be cool if we went and caught a movie this Friday night". Chloe isn't good at being that kind of friend, and she isn't good at being the type of friend who always does things with someone else.

"I have to get to the office, Eliot," Chloe says, a little more forcefully than she intends. She starts to move around him and for a moment she's afraid he'll resist.

But he doesn't.

"Will you be at lunch?" he asks, stepping aside.

"I don't know…" she says.

 _DON'T TAKE THE BLAME._

"I might not be…" Chloe admits.

And with that, she disappears inside Blackhell.

* * *

Rachel has been sitting in Wells' office for a good forty-five minutes by the time Chloe and Joyce arrive. Her parents have been standing behind her uncomfortable leather chair—her mother stiff as a lamppost, her father pacing like he means to wear a hole in the carpet—and all that time, nobody has said a single word. Wells is in rare form today, the veins of his temple throbbing fat and thick through his skin, sweat beading at the collar of his shirt and on his forehead, biting his lip like it'll run away if he doesn't. She can't see her father behind her, but she's sure it would be difficult to tell him apart from Wells if she could.

"I've got cases that need my attention, Ray," he told Rachel this morning. "You've gotta be more careful if you're going to start having reckless inclinations."

Her mother, on the other hand, had been steadfast in trying to convince her father it was a big misunderstanding… especially after Rachel had admitted to skipping school willingly.

"Well that other girl must have something to do with this. You've never skipped school before. It's so unlike you, Ray!" her father had said. "Very un-Amber."

"I've never been _caught_ skipping school," Rachel had muttered under her breath, but her mother went on trying to convince James that it was impossible and Rachel must have been coerced.

It was right around that time that Rachel realized she'd made a terrible mistake and decided it was time to go back and fix it. Maybe she _DIDN'T_ deserve the tree. Maybe she wasn't thinking… her head wasn't on right last night. Something about being in front of a live audience made her just… lose control. And she was almost always in control—she had to be, otherwise things got out of hand. That was the effect Chloe had, though: Chloe made Rachel lose control. She swore she wouldn't use her powers for insignificant things like a trip up the steps or an awkward conversation… or a girl she barely knew, but wanted very desperately to know. And Chloe certainly didn't deserve that shitshow at the junkyard. If Rachel could take anything back, it would be that. So that's exactly what she'd rewind. She'd go back to the morning she officially met Chloe… again… and just like every time before, she'd stay away.

She has always been the greatest danger to Chloe.

So she reached out into the space between her chest and the moment she asked Chloe for her lighter. She pulled herself towards it like she was reeling in a fishing net, one long heave after the next to reach the tree in the dead of night… back through the junkyard and the park and the train ride… sharing earbuds with the awkward girl in the boxcar—

"Rachel, honey, your nose is bleeding!" her mother had cried out.

Rachel quickly wiped her nose on her shirtsleeve. "The air's been dry lately," she had told them. "Must be the drought."

Her parents had shown adequate, but not overindulgent, concern until it was time to leave for the meeting with Wells, but something felt mechanical about the whole thing. All three of them were lost in their own little worlds, with James tearing through his mental case notes, Rose thinking of ways to blame Chloe for Rachel's bright idea to skip school, and Rachel sitting there terrified of the undeniable fact that she had failed to go back and fix this horrible mess.

What was happening to her?

She would try again. Maybe not so ambitiously this time, although she had been known to rewind an entire weekend on a whim.

She stacked her thoughts of panic into a neat corner of her mind and out of the way so she could peel away the layers of yesterday's memory… and hopefully tear them away from the fabric of time. Like always, she frowned squarely into the past, her face scrunching up with concentration, and she pulled toward it, willing herself back into yesterday morning.

But there was no rush. There was no throb as time gasped backwards and carried her with it. There was just… nothing. A few more drops of blood trickled from her nose.

Panicking, she decided to text Chloe… but she wasn't sure what to say. "How are you?" No, no. That was stupid. Not fine. Obviously. What about something along the lines of "I can't wait to see you"? No, too desperate. How about… "What the hell was I thinking? I royally fucked us both and I'm so sorry I got you caught in this mess, but I promise I'll find some way to fix it"? Well, there's a point where one can be _TOO_ honest.

She decided to go with something simple:

"R U Ok?"

It felt fake at the time. It felt disingenuous to ask Choe if she was okay. Of course she wasn't. She probably didn't sleep, probably didn't catch the bus, and was probably not going to make it out of Wells' office in one piece. And of course Rachel is to blame.

She could have picked anyone, but she was selfish the morning she picked Chloe Price. She even rewound twice to make sure hers was the first face Chloe saw when she opened the doors of Blackwell that morning.

She wonders if part of Chloe remembers the first conversation they had in that very same hall the week before… and sorely hopes not.

* * *

Chloe had made it out of the Principal's Office and down the hall towards her locker when Rachel spotted her. Rachel had been in the middle of deciding whether or not her Prospera costume needed to be taken in or not when she'd noticed someone wandering aimlessly through the halls. Her heart leapt. Of _COURSE_ it was Chloe. It's always her.

"Chloe! Hey—" Rachel had started, and then realized they hadn't officially met yet. Shit.

"Um…" Chloe wanted to make sure she was really who Rachel meant to talk to. She looked around, checking to see who else was in the hall. Maybe there was another Chloe—there had to be, right? Because to her, that looked an awful lot like Rachel Amber… _THE_ Rachel Amber. And they weren't friends, right?

"Are you talkin' to me?" Chloe asked. She felt stupid immediately—of course she was talking to Chloe Price. There was no other Chloe. And by the way Rachel's expression melted into a fond smile, she could tell she'd done the worst thing possible by asking. But Rachel's tone was warm and inviting.

"Of course," she had said, steadfastly gentle and oozing patience. "What are you doing here so early?"

"I was just, uh… I was… in a meeting," Chloe fumbled.

"Wow—I love your shirt, where'd you get it?" Rachel asked. She could tell this conversation was turning into a trainwreck very quickly. Of course Chloe was coming from the direction of Wells' office. God, why was Rachel so stupid? Don't ask the delinquent where she's coming from. Don't embarrass her!

"The bottom of some drawer, I don't really… remember…" Chloe was so confused. Why was Rachel suddenly interested in her whereabouts, her 2005 Debt Rager shirt, or her at all?

"I've got a shirt from their 2006 tour. You should borrow it sometime; I think it'd look hella good on you," Rachel said.

Oh fuck. She didn't mean to say that last part. Seriously? Rachel wouldn't know what looked good on a practical stranger. Well, to Rachel they weren't strangers, but to Chloe…

"I don't… th-that's—"

Rachel rewound.

"The bottom of some drawer, I don't really… remember…" Chloe mumbled.

"Well, speaking of wardrobe, I've been looking for a second opinion on something. Do you think you could help me out?" Rachel asked.

"S-sure."

Chloe kicked herself. Why was she being such a dope? Just say yes! It's Rachel Amber— _THE_ Rachel Amber. Anything she wants, she gets.

"I was sort of questioning the fit of my costume for the play this weekend; do you think it'd look better if I took it in a little more here?" Rachel asked, holding up a bit of the fabric around her waist. Her mother had been firm about not making it any tighter, but Rachel had other ideas.

And then she noticed something sort of funny. Not funny "ha ha", but funny in an "I didn't think Chloe Price knew how to blush" sort of way. Rachel watched the gears grinding together in Chloe's head and saw, for the first time, that she may have actually made some kind of impression on the delinquent.

"Well, I guess that's sort of a general question. What about having it tighter around _this_ part?" Rachel asked.

She pinched some of the fabric in her pants so that it was tighter around her butt and waited to see what shade of red Chloe might turn next. Instead of a response, Chloe just nodded very slightly, her eyes glued to Rachel's butt.

"Really?" Rachel said. "I thought so, too. It felt a little… impersonal. Don't you think?"

Impersonal? What was Rachel talking about? It was a costume, not lingerie. It wasn't _SUPPOSED_ to be personal.

"M-maybe… I guess…" Chloe trailed off like a fucking idiot. Of course Rachel having her ass out on stage was personal, and now, thanks to Chloe, it probably would be. Wait… was she _staring?!_ At Rachel Amber's butt? Oh God. Avert your eyes, Chloe, you miserable pervert! She's Rachel Amber!

Wait… was the princess actually trying to ask Chloe's opinion about clothing, or what was _UNDER_ the clothing? Whatever, just don't look at it!

"Thanks for the advice," Rachel said, a warm smile returning to her face. "Nobody ever gives me their honest opinion anymore. They just let me do whatever I want. It gets to be sort of a burden…"

What was she saying? She knew Chloe literally just agreed with her for the sake of agreeing—she had no power in the situation. Stop manipulating people, Rachel! Stop! But… the look on Chloe's face… it was so layered and difficult to read. Did she really just respond out of instinct, or was there more to the consideration? Had she, by some miracle, actually given an honest response?

So Rachel rewound.

"Well speaking of wardrobe, I've been looking for a second opinion on my costume. Do you think you could help me out?" Rachel asked.

"S-sure."

"My mom says it would look better if I had her take the waist in a little here," Rachel said, pinning down the fabric with her fingers, "but _I_ think it looks fine the way it is."

Chloe's face slouched into an uncomfortable frown, as if she was thinking an incredibly heavy thought. Her face turned redder than a stop sign.

"Y'know, she might have a point…" Chloe finally decided to say.

Rachel was taken aback. "Oh…"

"N-no! I didn't mean to say it looks bad this way, I just—"

Rachel rewound again.

Why was it so impossible for her to believe Chloe was telling the truth? Was there something… more to it? Was there something Rachel wasn't seeing?

She went back to make sure this time that her suspicions were true.

"I've been thinking about my costume… can I get your opinion?" Rachel asked.

"S-sure."

Okay, so far so good.

"I was sort of questioning the fit. Do you think it'd look better if I took it in a little more here?" Rachel asked, holding up a bit of the fabric around her shoulder this time.

Chloe frowned that same, layered frown.

"Looks fine to me," Chloe said. "Wait… they're supposed to be puffy, right?"

Rachel laughed. "According to The Taming of the Shrew," she said.

"Right… yeah, The… Shrew. Shrews..."

Rachel wondered why Chloe hadn't had as strong of a reaction. Why didn't her face go red? Rachel was still asking advice, and it was still a complicated question—it could have more than one answer! Was it just because of the placement? Was Chloe… gay?

This wasn't right—she shouldn't officially meet Chloe this way.

She rewound to the moment she saw Chloe wandering the halls and immediately turned on her heels and disappeared back into the theatre room. For a few days, Rachel found it appropriate to avoid Chloe altogether, just in case part of the conversation still lingered in the deja vu land of Chloe's memory. She wasn't sure if that was how it worked, but she figured that if she could remember something, someone else in the universe, at least to a small degree, must remember it too.

* * *

When Chloe makes it to Wells' office with Joyce in toe, she flops into the chair next to Rachel and tries to stifle her panting. She'd bumped into Joyce and nearly knocked her over coming around the corner, and boy she didn't look happy.

Wells is the first to speak:

"Ms. Price. How good of you to join us."

Chloe can't tell if he's talking to her mom, or her… but his tone is an unwelcome shock to the otherwise painfully silent room.

Joyce recovers quickly, "I'm so sorry we're late—my shift at the diner ran late, and then… just… sorry."

Not much of a recovery, but it's more than Chloe can muster.

Mr. and Mrs. Amber seem to be sharing a tense energy of disgust for the smell of Two Whales Diner that drifts in with Joyce, and Chloe wants to punch that stranger-kissing assface right in his… well, his assface. Maybe Joyce's partnership choices aren't the best, but she's a hard worker and doesn't deserve to be looked at with such disdain from Silver-Spoon DA Daddy and Business Woman Barbie. David can eat dick and drown, but Joyce is better than any two parents combined.

"Let us Proceed," Wells says haughtily through his double chin. "One of you here is new to the Blackwell disciplinary process… and the other is all too familiar with it."

He chooses that moment to swivel his chair and stare point blank into Chloe's reddening face.

"Blackwell's code of conduct is built upon a foundation of mutual respect meant to foster an environment…"

Chloe tunes him out. She can't focus on Wells with Rachel Amber sitting two feet to her right. And then of course there was that mysterious text about blame… and tea. But now that she thinks about it, maybe the tea was a red herring meant to throw her off the real path. Or maybe it was meant to make her pay attention to the details, no matter how small.

"Disrespectfulness," Wells drones on. "We agreed that you would rededicate yourself to becoming an exemplary Blackwell citizen…"

Chloe wants to make eye contact with Rachel, but she isn't looking. Actually, she hasn't looked at Chloe once since the meeting started. Is there something going on that Rachel hasn't told her about?

"Insubordinate language…"

Rachel isn't listening to Wells. Her head is spinning, trying to figure out how to get them both out of this. She's been trying to rewind since Chloe walked through the door, but it just won't work. She can feel the sweat starting to gather on her forehead from the concentration, but she can't manage to pull herself back in time, not even a few seconds.

"Witnesses saying you were involved in bullying Nathan Prescott…"

Ah, yes. That incident on the stairs outside Blackwell this morning where Chloe actually defended Nathan and saved his pictures from taking a dive in the school's fountain. Rachel hears Chloe's mother protest, though Joyce can't possibly know the truth. Most parents refuse to believe their child would be capable of treating another human being like garbage, but there's something in Joyce's tone that makes Rachel think she actually believes Chloe is innocent. It isn't robotic the way Rachel's own parents might respond to a claim like that, both of them knowing full well that bullying is not an acceptable mentality in the Amber household. And maybe Rachel _IS_ capable of bullying. Out of everyone here, she's looking more and more like the bully as Wells prattles on about Chloe throwing away her last shot at Blackwell.

And of course Rachel had known that this morning. She must have. She'd seen Chloe coming out of his office a few weeks ago and had known about Chloe's attendance record. There's no way she didn't do this knowing there may be consequences. Maybe she just assumed that, because Chloe was with the golden child, her guilt would be washed away by the baptismal waters of Rachel's approval. That's how it works, right? At least, that's how everyone else makes it seem… so why shouldn't it be true?

Rachel doesn't know anymore. Maybe she can't rewind because this is her punishment for saving Chloe from all that embarrassment: watching the delinquent crash and burn because of one reckless act of Rachel's own defiance.

"You severed your relationship with Blackwell the minute you left school grounds without permission…" Wells drones on.

It's impossible to rewind, isn't it. Rachel gave up her right to meddle with time the minute she took advantage of a situation that looked too good to be true: her and Chloe having a normal first meeting… a normal friendship… and normal… something-more-ship.

"It means you've forced my hand," Wells says.

Rachel wants to cry.

"...no choice but to expel you from Blackwell Academy—"

The room goes quiet.

Everything stops.

Rachel looks around at the frozen faces of her parents, of Chloe and Joyce… and Principal Wells. What's happening? She didn't freeze them… is this some kind of reaction? Time folding in on itself? It didn't occur to her until just now that she probably should be afraid of something like this, but… maybe she's been wanting it to stop. The power has been getting out of hand lately—she's been selfish with it. And lately, though she hates to admit it, it's been rather imprecise… like she isn't the one driving the car anymore.

She feels that familiar tug: the pulling of a net into her hands and the rush of time moving backwards...

Wells moves first.

"Let us Proceed," he says. "One of you here is new to the Blackwell disciplinary process… and the other is all too familiar with it."

Everyone is back in place to relive the expulsion again, and yes, there's Chloe: slouched in the chair that Rachel had occupied just last week to give Wells a summary of his daily correspondence with the events coordinator of the Vortex Club.

"Witnesses saying you were involved in bullying Nathan Prescott…"

Rachel could swear Joyce pushes back even harder against the bullying accusation this time. Her words are exactly the same, but the shift in her tone suggests she's argued something like this before, and she's completely certain she's correct.

Rachel glances towards her father out of the corner of her eye, and she can see him chomping at the bit to get back to work—expel the bitch and get this over with, he's probably thinking. Get on with it.

"You severed your relationship with Blackwell the minute you left school grounds without permission…"

Rachel feels the tug. No… no! Not again—what did she miss? Was she supposed to do something?

"It means you've forced my hand," Wells says.

What's supposed to be different?!

"...to expel you from Blackwell Academy—"

The room freezes.

Rachel slides out of the cracked leather chair and leans over Wells' desk to look more closely at his sweaty, pulsing face. She imagines herself looking similar, perspiration sliding down her cheeks and teeth clenched together in an unsatisfied snarl.

"Why are you like this?" she asks his frozen face quietly. "What'd she do to you?"

Rachel looks back at Chloe.

"You don't deserve this, do you," she mumbles to Chloe's still form.

She feels the net sucking her backwards.

No…

She collapses heavily into the chair before the room resets and crosses her ankles the way they were before.

"You severed your relationship with Blackwell the minute you left school grounds without permission…"

"I made her do it!" Rachel says firmly.

The room goes quiet, but not the deadly frozen kind like before. This time, everyone sat blinking down at Rachel, her jaw set and eyes narrowed at Wells, directly challenging him to do his worst.

A chorus of "WHAT?!" echoes around the room, and Chloe is the last one to speak her surprise, though she, more than anyone, would know that Rachel is finally telling the truth. It feels good almost to have the small audience hanging on her every word, hoping to God she's lying, knowing for a fact they wouldn't be able to tell if she was.

"Yesterday was all me," Rachel goes on. "I needed to blow off some steam and… things got out of control. Chloe warned me not to get carried away, but… it would be un-Amber of me to do anything halfway."

She makes sure to look over her shoulder at her father for that last part, puppy dog eyes and all. Her speech clearly strikes a chord with its spectators, because her parents look grossly sympathetic, Wells looks less like his temporal arteries might pop, Joyce looks relieved, and Chloe looks about ready to stand up and shout "she's lying!" but knowing full well Rachel is telling the closest thing to the truth she can muster.

Rachel addresses Chloe directly: "I know how much you wanted to keep me safe, and how hard it was for you to break your promise to Blackwell and Principal Wells—and to yourself for that matter," she says. "But do you think you could ever forgive me for dragging you down to my level?"

Chloe looks bewildered.

"Uh… yeah, I guess," she says.

Rachel sees the "you've got some explaining to do" eyes glinting in Chloe's skull, but doesn't give up her performance to reassure Chloe.

"You're too good to me," Rachel tells her. "I'll make it up to you—I promise."

Rachel doesn't have to lie her way through that bit. She really hopes she'll be able to make it up to Chloe by rewinding this whole thing and shutting the door on the entire event. Maybe she will, maybe she won't, but right now she's just glad nothing's frozen.

Chloe is in awe of the drama queen. How did Rachel Amber just convince a room of responsible adults that a straight A student coerced a dangerous and ruggedly-good-looking delinquent like herself into a rule-breaking extravaganza? What the hell is that girl made of? Her poor parents must have a terrible time of it, trying to have even the simplest honest conversation with Princess Do-No-Wrong. What an impossible girl…

Impossible to stop staring at…

The rest of the meeting is a blur for Rachel, though she doubts it'll ever leave Chloe's mind entirely: suspension. So what if Rachel isn't an administrative assistant anymore? She's sick of filtering the Vortex Club's grammarless emails and stuffing envelopes with Welcome Letters.

"...and you will no longer be involved in Blackwell's performance of The Tempest."

Rachel blinks up at Wells, dumbfounded.

"Wait… what?!" she says, a little more loudly than she intends.

"The performance is _TONIGHT_!" Chloe says quickly.

"And actions have consequences, as I'm sure you're well aware, Ms. Price," Wells says.

Chloe feels her temper bubbling. Maybe if she tells the truth—

She feels her phone buzz in her pocket.

Though it's probably just Eliot hoping to offer his overbearing affection and support, she is reminded of the mysterious texts:

 _DON'T TAKE THE BLAME._

She balls up her fists and sits rigidly in her chair. She wants to scream at Wells, maybe until his enormous, unkempt eyebrows run right off his smug, sweaty face. But Rachel's eyes are almost begging Chloe not to speak. Don't ruin this. Don't make it any worse.

 _DON'T TAKE THE BLAME._

If only there was some boiling hot tea around so she could dump it right on Wells' lap…

As the group files out of the office, there is a palpable sense of dissatisfaction. Joyce seems relieved that Chloe isn't as lost of a cause as everyone else was hoping, but other than that, the Ambers seem pretty upset with the way things went for Rachel. And they're probably happy to continue blaming the mannequin-smashing delinquent for what happened.

Chloe wonders if they even remember her name.

Maybe she's just a face that they'll curse well into their twilight years for ruining their daughter's life and killing her chances of being a world famous… administrative… secretary, assistant, pencil-pusher, or whatever Rachel does—uh, did—first period.

While Joyce and the Ambers exchange a few awkward words of introduction, Rachel whispers her own awkward apology to Chloe.

"I'm sorry about what happened in there," she says. "Would you… maybe wanna meet up later?"

"I'm the one who should be sorry—" Chloe begins, but she's cut off by Skip.

"Hey, Chloe," he says. He sounds genuinely sad to be standing the hallway on his day off, waiting for Chloe to get to her locker, toss out all her unopened textbooks, and leave the premises… probably forever.

"Hey, Skip," Chloe says sheepishly.

"You ready to go get your stuff?" he asks.

"I don't really care about any of that shit," she tells him.

"Right on," he chuckles. "Let's just dump it."

When Chloe turns to say goodbye to Rachel, she and the Ambers are gone.

"I'll meet you in the parking lot," Joyce says. It's a tone of defeat, but more than that, it's a tone of "I'm glad you're okay". Chloe knows she puts Joyce through the ringer when it comes to her education, but maybe this will be the excuse she needs to get out of this school once and for all. Maybe she and Rachel can go somewhere far away from Arcadia Bay and leave Blackwell, The Two Whales, and The Tempest in their rear view mirror.

They'll need a car with a mirror first, but Chloe has faith in the junkyard gods. With enough time and enough spare parts, anything is possible.

She shoots Rachel a text as she wanders down the hall with Skip:

 _Meet you at the junkyard in 30?_

Rachel responds with a winky face, and Chloe looks at it for a long time trying to decide what feeling it gives her and why that feeling scares her. She looks at the message right before that: _Can't wait. Missed you._

Now all she has to figure out is what in the living hell Rachel could have meant by that. Simple, right? If you consider unraveling the very fabric of the female psyche and pulling out a single thread "simple", then yes. Easy as pie.

But something is telling Chloe that this will be more like the equivalent of unraveling all of time and space, especially considering that performance in Wells' office. If Rachel can lie about who coerced who and have a whole room of people believe her, who's to say this isn't just one big act that nobody else quite has the script for? Who's to say "Missed you" isn't code for "I'm a very talented actress"? And who's to say a winky face can't be code for a future broken heart?


	5. Chapter 5

**Superpowers**

Chloe roots through the mounds of trash looking for a lightbulb. In all this junk—all this crap—she can't believe she's spent over an hour looking for a stupid bulb for that old truck. A completely preserved truck in the rubble with the full potential to be a makeshift pussy wagon and escape vehicle… and she can't find a damn lightbulb to save her life. She supposes she doesn't _need_ a lightbulb for the inside… but it might be nice. She thinks about how Rachel might need a light to read the map in the passenger seat, feet on the dash as the sun goes down over the Rockies… or the plains… or the skyscrapers down south. Maybe a highrise or two with an "H" lit up big as a billboard, or with some beach-themed name like "whitecap" or "sand dune" scrawled across the top in illegible script. Chloe likes the idea of Rachel Amber in the moonlight. She thinks that's the image that keeps her digging through the twisted metal and melted cardboard in the junkyard for any scrap of cloth to cover the holes in the bench seat—any ounce of battery life left in the lemons scattered around in the trash.

"Y'know… she probably looks lovely in blue," comes a voice from behind Chloe.

She whips around to see a tall, gentle-eyed blonde man leaning up against a grounded boat (riddled with holes big enough to walk through).

"Dad…" she whispers, knowing she can't speak too loudly or the moment will shatter and he'll go away like he always does.

"Why don't you give it a try?" he asks, pointing to a little toy robot up on a crate to his left.

His smile is so reassuring that she can't possibly say no. She reaches for the robot, assuming William will fade, but he doesn't. He just nods as she unseats the little blue bulb inside the robot's chest and stuffs it into her pocket.

"D-do you think you could help me find something to fix the floor with?" she asks.

He chuckles and looks down at her boots.

"Whadda ya need _my_ help for? Looks like you've already found what you need," he says.

Chloe follows his gaze to a broken "30mph" sign under her shoe. It looks just about the right size to cover the hole in the floor.

"But that flag up there might come in handy, don't you think?" he asks, pointing to a pirate flag waving its tattered edge in the wind above the boat.

"Whadda ya know…" she says quietly, moving towards the boat.

He doesn't say a word the whole time Chloe is retrieving the flag, so she keeps checking every few minutes to make sure William is still standing next to the boat, one hand held above his eyes in a salute to keep the sun away. He watches her casually, a smile still wide across his kind features. She doesn't want it to end.

"Thanks, Dad," she says, heading back for the truck.

"Mind if I join you?" he asks.

"Anytime," she tells him.

He walks with a bounce, hands in his pockets, regarding her fondly.

"Where will you go?" he asks.

"I'm not… entirely sure," she tells him. "She didn't really say."

"But where would you go if it was _your_ choice?" he asks.

Chloe doesn't know. Maybe she would go somewhere that's cold all the time—someplace with snow so she could leave the rancid smell of fish and the hot, muggy memory of Arcadia Bay far behind.

"Canada?" she says, but she isn't sure.

"Sounds good to me," he says. "I've never been to Canada."

"Then that's where we'll go."

She says it like he'll go with them, and not like he'll be here… in a hole in the earth. Arcadia Bay earth.

Chloe swings open the door of the truck and screws the lightbulb into place.

"Guess I'll have to get the battery working before I can test it out, huh," she says.

"Might help," William chuckles. "But you've always been one to make your own rules."

"Yeah…" she says. "And look how well _that's_ been working out…"

He leans both elbows on the hood of the car as Chloe straightens the pirate flag across the bench seat. He watches her with all the enamored curiosity of a child.

"I thought you hated school," he says.

"I don't," she tells him. "Well, I didn't used to… I don't know. School's been pretty tough since… y'know. Since…"

"I guess I should've considered that," he admits sheepishly.

"It's not like you did it on purpose," she says, dropping the street sign into place over the hole in the floor. She lays down on the bench and William comes to lean in the open window, resting his chin on his arms.

"Then why do I get the feeling you blame me for what happened?" he asks.

Chloe doesn't know.

"It's alright, honey," he says. "You can blame me if you like. Better than blaming your mother."

"I get that she's trying," Chloe mutters. "But… I just don't think David moving in will fix the fact that you're gone. Him being here isn't stability for me."

"He makes her happy," Williams says.

" _You_ made her happy."

"I used to make _you_ happy once, too… remember?" he asks.

"It was always your superpower," she admits.

"Guess I'm not so super anymore, huh kiddo…" he says.

"You're not anything anymore," she tells him. "But if you were…"

"But I'm not," he says. "And just because that's hard doesn't mean it's the end of the world. There'll be other things—other people—with superpowers."

"Like Rachel…" Chloe says, more to herself than to William.

"She's special to you, isn't she," William says.

"She's the first person who took me seriously when I said I couldn't live here anymore. She promised me we'd leave—together."

"She probably doesn't realize how much this means to you," he says lightly. "Running away."

"She knows," Rachel says firmly.

He looks a little embarrassed and puts his hands up in front of his chest.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Looks like I'm getting into your personal business again," he says.

"At least you listen," Chloe tells him.

"Listen?" he asks. "Chloe… I'm not even here."

"But you would be, if you could."

"But I'm not," he says.

"I guess not."

"Would you be here if I was alive?" he asks.

"In the junkyard?" she replies.

His face falls from a perky smile to a deep expression of worry.

"Chloe?"

It's her Dad's face, but it isn't his voice.

"Chloe?"

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Are you asleep?" the voice calls.

She jerks awake.

"Huh?" she mumbles, trying to sit up from the truck seat. She must've dozed off waiting for Rachel… who just so happens to be swatting at her boot with a pensive (and neatly manicured) hand.

"Oh, good—you're awake!" Rachel says. "Sorry about that whole… shitshow in Wells' office. My Dad can be a bit… my Dad."

"Yeah, mine too," she says quietly.

"What?"

"I said it's no big deal," Chloe recovers. "You majorly saved my ass… and got hella crushed for it. I'm the one who should be apologizing."

"For what?" Rachel asks. "I just told the truth—the whole thing was my idea."

"But I went along with it. You didn't coerce me, and I _definitely_ didn't go to keep you out of trouble," Chloe says.

"Of course you did," Rachel says. "That's the problem with a 'no questions asked' policy: you rarely know when you're going with someone to keep them safe."

"I'm not a pawn—"

"I never said that," Rachel says, opening the truck door and sliding into the bench seat.

Chloe sits up.

"Then what am I?" Chloe asks.

"You're my friend," Rachel tells her. "Or… I don't know. It's new… I'm not sure there's a word for what we are yet."

"I think there might be…" Chloe mutters.

"I'm just not sure I wanna put somebody else's language on us. We're different. There's more to us than anything anybody else can come up with. Why don't _we_ pick our _own_ word for it?"

Chloe can't believe this is working. Rachel is clearly trying to avoid using a term to avoid taking responsibility for whatever this relationship is turning into… but Chloe is going along with it. She can't believe she's going along with it.

"Why don't _you_ pick the word?" Chloe says.

Rachel smiles slyly and scoots closer to Chloe.

"Why don't we call it our superpower?" Rachel asks.

Chloe stares blankly at Rachel.

Superpower?

"What, too tacky?" Rachel asks. She looks like she might almost be embarrassed to have suggested something like that. Like it's too personal.

"Um… no, it's…"

"I was just thinking that… you make me want to be the best version of myself—I don't know if you know this about me or not, but I don't normally run away with people. Especially not people I don't _hella_ care about. And… you're kind of amazing, Chloe Price. You make me feel like I can do anything in the world."

Chloe desperately wants to believe Rachel, but something is holding her back.

 _"_ _She probably doesn't realize how much this means to you..."_

"And if that isn't a superpower," Rachel says, "I don't know what is."

"Superpower it is," Chloe says.

Rachel lays her head in Chloe's lap and stares up at the dark blue lightbulb on the ceiling of the truck. Chloe's mind wanders back to the conversation with William again. She can't help but think that maybe he's right. Maybe Rachel _doesn't_ know what she's doing. Maybe she _isn't_ who she's pretending to be, and more disturbingly, maybe she's pretending because she needs something from Chloe that she can't just ask for. Maybe Chloe is being manipulated.

But then again, seeing the worst in people has always been Chloe's superpower. That, of course, and ruining good things that fall into her lap.

Or lay across it.

But then again, just like she found the perfect little lightbulb in amongst the garbage, there's a chance this might be one good thing that she can't ruin. This might be something unbreakable that's immune to Chloe's superpower.

She barely notices her fingers weaving through Rachel Amber's hair as the two of them stare up at the lightbulb.

Leave it to a pile of trash to give Chloe Price hope.


	6. Chapter 6

**All Hell**

Chloe can't believe she fell asleep in the junkyard. Again. Though it wasn't really sleep. It was another nightmare, just like always, except this time her Dad was roasting marshmallows over the burning remains of his car and mumbling things like "fire blinds with beauty". Whatever _that's_ supposed to mean. Sleeping in the little cinder block shed wasn't nearly as comfortable as being balled up on the bench seat of that old truck. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that she had woken up to Rachel in the truck. She can't decide why she _always_ wants to wake up to Rachel, but as she rounds the corner and takes the stairs two at a time to get onto the lawn of Blackhell, she can't find the princess anywhere. Isn't she supposed to be here cleaning out her dressing room?

Speaking of dressing rooms, someone has definitely taken over Prospera's tent. Is Victoria Chase seriously making tea in there right now? More like stirring, it looks to have already been made. In Rachel's tent. Okay, it's not Rachel's anymore, per se. But what kind of smug bitch—

Oh shit. Chloe ducks away from the opening of the tent so Victoria doesn't see her watching. Where the hell _is_ Rachel anyway? She was supposed to be here like an hour ago… and so was Chloe to help her get her stuff, which she clearly hasn't done because Victoria Chase is in the middle of shoving Rachel's makeup kit into a corner and tossing her flannels onto the floor. When Chloe peeks around the corner again, Victoria is sipping from a little china tea cup on Rachel's dressing table. Chloe has to remind herself that tea isn't a crime.

Wait…

Tea.

Chloe's head starts to spin. Tea. In Rachel's dressing room. _DON'T LET RACHEL DRINK THE TEA._ Rachel isn't drinking it… but is it fine for _anyone_ drink tea? Chloe isn't sure. Maybe Rachel _should_ be drinking the tea. Tea is what performers need before… er… performing, right? Is that tea… for Rachel? Did someone not get the memo that she was kicked out of the play and still bring her—

A horrible choking sound fills Rachel's tent as Victoria clutches at her throat. Chloe wants to step in and do something, but her feet are frozen in place. She's stuck to the grass until someone rushes by, knocking her to the ground. Her ears ring and the backstage section of Blackhell's main lawn is lit up with the chaos of Nathan Prescott dragging Victoria's unconscious form—Chloe hopes so, anyway—out onto the grass and shouting for someone to call for help. Dana flounders over to see what's wrong, and Steph is desperately trying to clean her coffee spillage off the light board. It must have happened when Nathan started shouting...

And of course Rachel would choose this as her moment to arrive unnoticed on the scene… just as her finally-got-her-shot understudy bites the dust. One might even say the timing is _too_ perfect. Could that tea be a little gift from Rachel herself?

No.

Of course not. Rachel wouldn't do that. She's not like that. She's not the type of person to lash out when something doesn't go her way…

What is Chloe thinking? Rachel _definitely_ dosed that tea. But… with _what_?

Victoria's collapse is overshadowed by a shrill cry from the director.

"We're ruined!" Mr. Keaton bellows. "Juliet—our Ariel—confounded by the conflagration!"

"She did _what_?!" Hayden says, rushing from the boys' dressing tent to where Mr. Keaton is having his meltdown.

"The fire, dear Ferdinand!" Keaton monologues. "It has spread such that the roads are lined with fleeing victims and debris!"

"She texted me saying she was stuck in traffic…" Steph says, rolling her eyes at Mr. Keaton. She sits back down at the light board and begins tearing through pages of cues. "She doesn't have too many lines until the middle of Act One… maybe we can figure something out."

Rachel comes over to Chloe and nudges her.

"What the hell did I miss?" Rachel asks, gesturing to Nathan doing bad CPR on Victoria Chase over by Prospera's tent.

"This show is fucked," Chloe mumbles. "Where were you?"

"I got caught up," Rachel shrugs. "Looks like I'm here just in time though."

Mr. Keaton wails loudly into his hands as Steph wildly turns pages and crosses out entrances in the script.

"It's fine!" she says. "See? Look, we can just… we can skip this part, and—"

"RUINED!" Mr. Keaton cries. "Reduced to carving up Shakespeare like a country ham!"

Rachel takes Chloe's hand in the chaos.

"Do you trust me?" Rachel asks.

Chloe blinks dumbly. Does she trust Rachel Amber? After the tea, after the wine, after the… the fire, and Wells' office? Does she _trust_ Rachel? No. No, she doesn't. In fact—

"Yes," Chloe says.

Fuck!

Where did _that_ come from?! Where is the part of her mouth that listens to her brain? What happened to that whole "think before you speak" thing? Is she insane? NO she doesn't trust wine-stealing, Victoria-killing, lie-telling, temper-tantrum-having, smashy, "superpower" Rachel!

Chloe feels Rachel squeeze her hand.

"Mr. Keaton!" she says. "Chloe can stand in for Juliet—just until the roads clear."

Steph stops dead, the shuffling of script pages silenced.

Dana and Hayden stare in astonishment.

Mr. Keaton raises his face with a most hopeful expression.

"Is… is that so?" he asks, his eyes boring holes in Chloe.

Everyone seems to have forgotten Victoria by this point, with the sole exception of Nathan, who is on the phone trying to get an ambulance.

"What?! No!" Chloe says. "I don't—"

"She's the right fit for Juliet's costume," Rachel says. "And she's the best improviser I've ever seen."

"Good thing we have a script for that," Steph mutters.

"Indeed, she is…?" Keaton says, unaware of anything but Chloe's shrinking form, desperate to escape his gaze.

"I've never—" Chloe begins, but Rachel squeezes her hand so tight it hurts.

"Young lady," Keaton begins in a booming, theatrical voice, "What would you say if I told you that the entire production rests on your slender shoulders?"

Steph sighs heavily and tosses her script onto the table, narrowly missing the spilled coffee next to the light board.

"I'd say—" Chloe starts, but Rachel cuts her off.

"Please? For me?"

Dammit.

Chloe can't believe she got roped into another one of Rachel Amber's stupid-as-hell hair-brained schemes. What on earth was Rachel thinking?! Chloe can't memorize all these lines! There's no way! Flamed amazement? Neptune's… what? BESIEGE?!

Please, for Rachel, indeed.

Chloe looks like an idiot. A complete basketcase. Nobody dresses like this willingly as an extracurricular—it's gotta be some kind of punishment. She's not really sure how they've let a suspended student take part in an after school activity, or why nobody seems to care that Victoria is passed out in the corner of Rachel's reclaimed tent (said to have "fainted in a panic" due to the "circumstances" after it was decided an ambulance wasn't necessary), but here she is… dressed like a stupid fucking bird lady… about to prance onstage with glitter and makeup smeared all over her body.

Here goes nothing.

Well, here goes her shot with Rachel, but does she really have one anyway? And more importantly, does she _want_ one? This isn't something that normally happens to people who share a… "superpower", and there's definitely no earthly reason why Chloe keeps getting dragged into these sorts of messes.

She watches Rachel from behind the dark curtains, Mr. Keaton waiting with baited breath for her to deliver the lines that will begin Chloe's few moments in the spotlight. She can't tell if he's excited by the possibility… or terrified. He seems the type to tear up a little bit from either circumstance. But either way, it's time for Chloe to find out what the hell she's capable of doing for Rachel Amber:

"Come away, servant, come! I am ready now," Rachel says. "Approach, my Ariel. Come."

"That's your cue!" Mr. Keaton hisses, and he nudges Chloe out onto the stage.

Dammit.

The lights are so bright, Chloe can't help but squint as she moseys over to where Rachel is standing center stage. That asshole who Steph left in charge of the light board is making one mistake after another, blasting the yellows and moving the follow spot every which way. Shit. What's her first line? She can't see anything except… except… Rachel Amber. And she's… embarrassingly lovely, Chloe thinks. Absolutely red-in-the-face gorgeous. Chloe can't stop staring at her, but what's worse, she can't remember her goddamn line. No, no. _Juliet's_ line. Juliet's stupid fucking line.

There is a palpable silence.

Of course "Hell is empty" is all Chloe can think of. She almost laughed out loud when she read that one backstage—it was… funny. Almost. And almost funny is close enough to funny, but not close enough to her actual fucking first line to be _at all_ helpful. At least it's a line, though. She opens her mouth to say it when she catches a glimpse of Steph whispering her _actual_ first line frantically from the edge of the curtain. All… what's she saying? All… hail? All hail! Chloe remembers now.

"All Hell!" Chloe says to the crowd.

FUCK!

Rachel doesn't break character to smile, but the audience ripples with laughter.

"Great mistress…" Chloe goes on. "I come to answer thy best pleasure."

Rachel gives Chloe a very unfamiliar smirk. This must be Prospera's smirk, not Rachel's. Right. Chloe is talking to _Prospera_ now, not Rachel. She can't think of her as Rachel or she'll never get through this nightmare play.

"Most fearless, generous spirit… hast thou performed to point the tempest that I bade thee?" Prospera says.

Right. This is the part with the flaming amazement.

"I… boarded the king's ship; in every room, I flamed amazement!" Chloe says.

Prospera looks relieved. Chloe can't tell if that's Rachel being relieved that Chloe remembered the line, or Prospera relieved that Ariel did as she was told.

"The fire and cracks of sulfurous roaring the most mighty Neptune seem'd to besiege and make his bold waves… tremble!" Chloe goes on, wiggling her fingers in the air as she says the word "tremble". A light murmur of laughter passes through the crowd.

"My brave spirit!" Prospera announces. "Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil would not infect his reason?"

Prospera takes her by the shoulder and wanders aimlessly downstage a bit. She must have noticed Chloe standing stiff as a board behind the crates and foam rocks.

"Uh… Not a soul. The King's son, Ferdinand, was the first man that leaped from his ship and cried…"

Oh, she remembers this part. Of course she does. This is her funniest line…

"Hell is empty!" Chloe says. "And all the devils are here!"

Prospera's face turns to one of deep concern.

"But are they, Ariel, safe?" she asks Chloe.

She can see Steph backstage gesturing wildly for her to climb up to the point of the little shipwreck behind Prospera to deliver her next line. Chloe turns to the stormy backdrop and galumphs towards the plywood boat.

"Not a hair perished!" she says. "And, as thou bad'st me, I have disbursed them about the isle in troops!"

She hops playfully from the boat and lands in a pose she's only ever seen jesters make in gaudy plays like this one. She catches a glimpse of Keaton on the other side of the stage behind the curtain, and he seems to be eating it up. His fists are clenched in tight balls as if egging her on.

"Ariel, thy charge exactly is performed."

Prospera leads Chloe around the "sleeping" form of Dana who is pretending to be passed out on a rock.

"But there's more work," Prospera says.

"Is there more toil?" Chloe asks, hunching with mock exhaustion. "Let me remember thee what thou hast promised!"

Chloe chooses this opportunity to let just a little bit of her frustration with Rachel peek through. Her tone overdoes it just a fraction, but there's a glint in Prospera's eyes that suggests she's very much enjoying Chloe's enthusiasm.

"How now?" Prospera says, crossing her arms over her chest and letting her staff lilt behind her back. "What is 't thou canst demand?"

"My liberty!" Chloe says.

Liberty indeed. Maybe that really _is_ what she wants, and not just for some play. She wants to be free of the parts of herself that do as Rachel commands, without any questions asked, without any second thoughts. She wants to be able to say no to the drama queen and mean it. She wants to be able to feel like she is in control of herself again. Liberty from the "superpower" that makes her cheeks burn red when she looks into those hazel eyes…

"Thy… liberty?" Prospera asks hesitantly.

Shit. Did Chloe mess up the line? It's definitely liberty, right? She wants to be free of Prospera's demands? Some kinky slave shit…

"Um…" Chloe begins, but Prospera cuts her off.

Or… is it Rachel?

"Nay! This most of all I will not grant."

That's not her line.

Chloe stares down at the little blonde girl with streaks of black and white makeup covering her face, and she wonders if that pink underneath is actually a little bit of Rachel peeking through, rather than Prospera… or maybe just a trick of the light.

"But… thou assured my freedom," Chloe says.

She can see Steph in the wings tossing her script onto the floor in resignation. She heads backstage to tend to the light board, which she's left in the not-so-clever hands of the stage monkey who's been blasting the yellow tree lights at anything and everything since the curtain rose.

"I… never said how dearly I hold thee," Rachel says. "My habit's been to keep my soul well-draped."

Chloe thinks back to that first afternoon in the junkyard and Rachel just "wanting some space". Well-draped indeed. But there was more to it than that. Chloe was certain at the time that Rachel was angry with her—that it was something Chloe had done. Rachel has a way of draping so as to cause the observer the most damaging blow. It's like she was hurting… so she wanted to make Chloe hurt, and knew exactly how to do that in the most potent and corrosive way.

"Most loyal spirit…" Rachel goes on. "Companion… and friend. Is acting in my service not replete with excitement, amusement, and delight?"

The little blonde girl looks beseechingly up at Chloe.

No. Of course it isn't "replete with excitement, amusement, and delight". It's replete with self-loathing, inferiority, and wondering when Rachel will be bored or disappointed enough to leave Chloe for something better.

"Of course, mistress…" Chloe says.

Dammit! No!

"Then why, I pray you, wish you to be free?" Rachel asks.

Hmmm… so Chloe can regain control of her own stupid mouth maybe?!

"Excitement's a mere counterfeit of bliss…" Chloe says. "These storms, these adventures… I prefer to know thou still cared for my plainest self."

Rachel's eyes glisten as though she's been wounded deeply. Chloe wonders if it's acting, or if Rachel really sees that _she's_ the one wounding Chloe, and not the other way around.

But Rachel blinks away the beginnings of tears and slams her staff down on the stage to bring herself back from the brink of crying in front of a live audience unbidden.

"I have thee in my grasp," Rachel says. "I will not bend. I will not see thee flying forth alone. The envy would be… more than I could bear."

Rachel Amber envying Chloe Price? Now that's a load of—

"So come with me!" Chloe says. "Is that not in thy pow'r?"

She has no idea what she's saying, much less where that came from. The two girls stare at each other for a long, long while… each of them convinced they understand what the other is thinking when they blink or inhale or shift their weight to the opposite foot. Truthfully, Chloe has no idea what Rachel is thinking… and she's not sure she wants to know.

 _She probably doesn't realize how much this means to you..._

"Spirit…" Rachel speaks finally. "Take my hands, most faithful friend…"

She kneels, laying her staff on the stage and reaching for Chloe.

"For but a little longer, I beseech: continue in thy service to my schemes. And when they are complete… I swear to thee: we shall fly beyond this isle, the corners of the world our mere prologue. I'll seek to make thy happiness so great that e'en the name of liberty's forgot."

Forgot… but not realized. Chloe knows what this means, she just… can't quite work out what Rachel really wants her to say. Why is Rachel so interested in Chloe? Was this all just some big scheme to trap Chloe up here on stage and make her swear away her rights to ever thinking clearly again? Is there an answer she can give that won't mean losing either herself or Rachel for good?

"What sayest thou to my most hopeful wish?"

Chloe swallows hard, knowing that there isn't anything she can do to make this go away. She can't stop the question like she normally can—by getting angry and blowing up on someone until they forget what they've said to corner her in an impossible situation.

She hears someone in the crowd shout, "Say yes!"

But that isn't what she wants. She wants to say no. Chloe knows that if she doesn't say no _right now_ , she's giving up on herself. She's agreeing to take the blame for everything Rachel ever does in every fit of rage, every spiteful trick, every tree-burning, wine-stealing, Victoria-Chase-poisoning moment. And Chloe doesn't want that. She doesn't _want_ to be someone else's dishrag. She doesn't _want_ to be that for Rachel Amber. She can't see herself understanding herself more deeply or loving herself more fully by dancing around the hole in the earth that she knows she will eventually fall into one day, regardless of what she decides here and now. This answer will change her life—of that, she is certain. But it won't save it. It won't enhance it. No matter what she chooses, she's screwed. But there is only one way to go from here if she says yes to Rachel Amber: down. So she takes a breath, looks Rachel square in her face, and opens her mouth…

"Yes."

NOOOO!

The crowd erupts with applause and Rachel smiles her smug smirk that she only gets when she's winning, and stands to dismiss Chloe.

"I am most pleased," she says. "Your duty, done for now. So go forth hence with haste! I've work to do."

Chloe doesn't feel Juliet's arms envelope her once she's behind the curtain. She doesn't hear Keaton's praise. She doesn't feel her feet walking her through the grass backstage and into the tent to change her clothes. She doesn't feel the rough fibers of the wet towel grabbing at her skin as she smears the makeup from her face, and she, most importantly, doesn't stay for the curtain call. There's nothing there for her. Not even Rachel Amber's hazel-eyed smile and smashy "superpower".

Breaking things. That's Rachel's superpower. Breaking things like promises to be somewhere on time and to be more careful with fire… and things like Chloe Price. She doesn't see herself as fragile, but she sees the great tempest of hurling wind and debris that is Rachel Amber… and she's just agreed to get sucked up into its fury.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket.

She hopes it isn't Eliot texting her to say something supportive about the show.

She hopes it isn't Joyce telling her to come home.

She open to the message and stops in her tracks.

 _YOU HAVE TO GO BACK_.

Yeah right. She doesn't ever have to go back to Blackhell again if she doesn't want to. There's nothing left for her there—not even Rachel. That was just a play. Her saying "yes" means nothing, and if she leaves tonight, she won't ever have to worry about it again. She'll attach the new battery to the truck first thing in the morning and be gone before anyone can tell her no.

 _CHLOE, TURN AROUND._

Chloe ignores the unknown number.

 _YOU NEED TO GO TO THE AMBER HOUSE._

She texts back: _no i dont_.

And she puts her phone back in her pocket and continues on towards the junkyard. There's nothing back there for Chloe, because hell is empty… and all the devils are _here_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Permission**

Chloe wakes in a sweat, the events of the night before slowly trickling back to the forefront of her memory. Rachel. The play. Prospera…

No.

From inside the cinderblock shed, Chloe can just barely make out a faint flickering from outside. Could it be… the fire? Is it finally here? But she hears only a low crackling, not a terrifying roar of flames that swallow trees whole.

She rubs her eyes and steps out into the night.

William is sitting by his burning car, the hood exposed and belching flames as he roasts a marshmallow carefully on the end of a stick.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd wake up," he says lightly, rotating his marshmallow.

"You were… waiting for me?" she asks.

"Come have a seat," he says patting an overturned plastic crate beside him.

Chloe hesitates. If she does as she's told, he'll leave. He always leaves.

"I brought marshmallows," he says, wiggling the bag in his hand.

"What time is it?" she asks him, trying once more to rub the sleep from her eyes.

"Why, do you have somewhere to be?" he asks with a light chuckle.

"Guess not," she says.

Her stomach growls. She can't remember the last time she ate. Marshmallows sound… pretty good right now, actually. She plops down onto the crate next to William and he hands her a stick with the end whittled down to a point.

"Help yourself," he says. "I eat as many as I can and they never seem to go away…"

She skewers a marshmallow and holds it to the orange flames blossoming from the car's engine.

"Did it burn like this the day it happened?" she asks William.

He shrugs.

"I can't imagine why it wouldn't," he says. "My whole left side was gone in minutes."

"That must be why Mom wanted a closed casket," Chloe mumbles.

"I think it's because she didn't want to think about me going into a hole in the earth," he says. "Nobody did."

"Sometimes people _need_ to be reminded of stuff like that. Makes us think about what we had… have… both, I guess."

"And sometimes people need to move past what's hurting them," William says, pulling his marshmallow from the fire and pinching it between his fingers to see if it's done. Dissatisfied, he holds it back over the smoldering engine.

"Are these safe to eat?" she asks.

"Does it matter?" he asks. "They'll be gone when you wake up anyway."

"I'm still asleep?"

"I guess you must be," William tells her. "Why else would I be here?"

"Maybe because I think about you so much," Chloe says. "You can't help but show up."

"I like to think I was always there for you when you needed me," he says.

"You were."

"So… why do you need me _now_?" he asks.

Chloe watches him slide the marshmallow off the stick and toss it into the car.

"I guess… I'm feeling kinda lost. You always made me feel found and I… I think I need that right now."

"You're worried about your friend, Rachel," he says.

Chloe sighs and blows out the burning marshmallow on the end of her stick, peeling off the crisped outer layer and tossing it aside.

"I'm not really," Chloe says. "I'm worried about me. I'm not myself around her."

"Whose self are you then?" William asks.

"Whatever self she wants me to be."

"And that makes you unhappy?" he asks.

"It makes me feel like I'm not in control."

"Maybe someone else being in charge could be good for you right now," William says.

"That's what Mom thinks," Chloe mutters, wiping the end of the flaming stick on the front bumper of the car. "That's what _David_ thinks."

"I'm only telling you things you already know," William reminds her. "One of the many gifts of being dead is that you lose a bit of originality."

"I know, Dad. I just… don't want things to change anymore."

"But running away will change _everything_ ," he says.

"Yeah, but it'll be better," Chloe says, a little more firmly than she intends.

"Because it'll be with Rachel?"

"Because I'll be in control of myself— _my_ life."

"But you're not in control when you're with her," he says.

"Maybe that'll go away…" Chloe says. "If we can just get out of this garbage town and leave all this shit behind—the Prescotts, Blackhell, Dickstache—"

"Your Mother, your friends, your home… your dear old Dad—"

"I'm not leaving you behind," she says. "I wouldn't do that."

"You don't think I deserve a taste of my own medicine?" he chuckles.

"You didn't do it on purpose," she tells him. "I know that. I've always know you wouldn't have gone if you didn't have to."

"But I _did_ have to," he says.

"Maybe in this life, sure," she tells him. "But there are other ones, right? Where you're still here and I'm not in a fucking junkyard talking in my sleep?"

"Maybe you should ask that person who keeps texting you," he tells her.

"They wouldn't answer me if I asked."

"You don't know that," he says.

"They don't know how to help."

"They knew about the tea," he says.

"Well that wasn't helpful. Rachel made that tea for Victoria so she could get back in the play and manipulate me," Chloe says. "That's what she does: she manipulates people and she gets what she wants."

"Sounds like you're making it about you. That's something a princess would do," William says.

"Whose side are you on anyway?" Chloe growls.

"That's entirely up to you, Chloe," he says lightly.

"I thought we were letting other people decide things for me. Isn't that how this goes?"

"She took a pretty hard fall for you in that office, didn't she?" he asks.

"And she _still_ ended up getting her way."

"Maybe she's paying for it in other ways," William says.

"Like what?"

"Her family's in trouble," he tells Chloe.

"And she lit a fucking town on fire—which no one seems to care about, by the way! She doesn't even feel guilty. She just made a mess and left everyone else to clean it up, like she always does."

"You're talking like you really know her," William says. "But how much do you _really_ know about Rachel Amber?"

"I know she's a mess," Chloe says. "Isn't that enough?"

William sighs. "Chloe… everything you are is enough. Everything you say, everything you do… it's plenty."

"We're not talking about me right now."

"Aren't we?"

Chloe tosses the stick to the ground and stands up from the crate. "Talk about whatever you want. I'm going back to sleep," she says.

"A princess throws a tantrum and blames other people for her own problems," William says. "Are you sure it's Rachel you have a problem with?"

"Shut up, Dad! I didn't ask you!"

"Chloe… you're not asking me. You're asking yourself."

"Stop with the mind games!" she shouts at him. "You're not like this! This isn't you!"

He smiles a sad smile and looks up at Chloe, the flames flickering across his gentle face as the car burns up the marshmallow on his stick.

"Then why do you keep bringing me here?" he asks. "Why this face? Why not the face you really want to talk to?"

"Because you're the only thing I know," she says, tears welling behind her eyes. "Because you're the me who made sense of everything before my Dad died… and now nothing makes any fucking sense at all! How am I supposed to say that to myself, huh? How do I tell myself I'm not gonna be okay?"

He looks at her for a long while, his blue eyes dancing in the flames. There's something different about them than what Chloe remembers. They're the wrong shape, maybe. The wrong shade. She can't decide. But the way he looks at her, that's the same as it ever was.

"You just did," William says gently.

A long, low sound of a truck horn howls in the distance and William looks over his shoulder.

"Sorry, sweetheart," William says. "Looks like my ride is here. We'll talk about it later, okay? Once you've had some time to think about things."

The horn sounds again as William stands and closes the hood of the car, causing the fire inside to sputter and turn into a column of slow-rising smoke.

"Dad, no…"

He pries open the driver's side door and climbs into the seat, resting his hands on the wheel.

"It's time to wake up, Chloe," William says with a sad smile on his kind, heartbreaking face. "Fire doesn't wait."

Before Chloe can so much as take a single step away from the car, the truck horn blares through the night and a brilliant set of headlights flash out of nowhere, careening through the dark and crushing the small, smoldering car. It's as if it had never been sitting there… just a dark pile of ash and a smattering of blood coat the deep tire trenches in the earth.

Chloe opens her mouth to scream, but there's nothing left in her. It's all eaten up by the flames and spat back out again in ash and twisted car parts.

This is just a dream, she tells herself. You can wake up now.

As if giving herself permission will make it any easier.

* * *

When morning finally comes at the Amber House, everything is quiet. Rachel isn't used to the silence that accompanies her parents not speaking to one another. Her mother is still upset about what happened in Wells' office, and James is too busy with his work to notice. Rachel thinks that, if she were her mother, she would ignore James too… whether he knew (and cared) or not.

Maybe she's just thinking that because she's still furious about what happened at the park. Maybe she has no right to be angry, but… if she can't be angry, what _can_ she be? She supposes she could be like everything else around here: she could be quiet. When she goes downstairs, her mother isn't making breakfast. _Even breakfast is too loud for this kind of morning_. This is a silent cereal day with a paper towel to line the bottom of the bowl while you pour so the pieces don't make any sound clinking against the porcelain. This is a "pouring cereal is too loud" day. Rachel doesn't even want to open the cabinet to pull out a granola bar. The door parting from the rest of the wood can only call attention to the fact that nothing else in this entire house is moving.

She sees her Mother sitting in the foyer with a newspaper spread across her lap. She isn't turning the pages, because that would be a most unbearably raucous sound, but she's skimming over the Help Wanted section like she's never seen words before in her life… or applied for a job.

Rachel doesn't want to open her mouth to say she's sorry. Parting lips might mean the end of the silence, and the silence keeps the Amber family from talking about what's really going on. She cherishes the quiet of this type of morning—the tension reeled back and held _just tight enough_ to break skin when let loose to fly. This is a pulled-rubber-band kind of morning.

So she goes back upstairs, puts on her clothes, and leaves through her window. Not because she wants to sneak out, but because she doesn't want the sound of the front door closing to break the glass holding everybody in place. She doesn't want the noise of it to send everybody flying in all directions, breaking skin wherever contact is made.

It's a short walk, but a quiet one.

* * *

When she finally reaches the junkyard, there's a moment where she thinks Chloe might actually have gone home last night instead of coming here. When she catches sight of Chloe asleep in the truck, she wants to kick herself for being so selfish about breakfast. When's the last time Chloe ate? When's the last time _anybody_ ate? Are those the same clothes from yesterday? Of course, idiot. Where would Chloe get clothes in a junkyard? Rachel feels ridiculous. Why hadn't she thought of _anything_?

Maybe it's best not to wake her. Maybe her wandering off in the middle of the play meant she was sick of Rachel, not just that she was feeling awkward and couldn't bear to be dragged back onstage for the curtain call. Chloe must've known Rachel was thinking about it.

Chloe must've known Rachel was thinking about her all last night when she stopped answering her texts.

Rachel feels like an asshole again. Of course Chloe doesn't have a phone charger in the middle of the junkyard. What a fucking idiot. Rachel can't believe she's been so selfish. The princess wakes up, refuses to make herself breakfast out of spite, doesn't bring Chloe anything to eat or drink or wear or charge her goddamn phone with… what sort of person does that?

She's too embarrassed to want to wake Chloe up. She doesn't want her to say "you look tired" or "are you okay?" like the kind, compassionate human being Rachel knows Chloe is. It'll make Rachel feel worse. Being around someone like Chloe… it's harder than she could ever have imagined. She spent months taking care of her—almost a year now, actually—and not once did she ever think that maybe Chloe might actually want to take care of Rachel in return. How selfish… how unkind. It's impossible for Rachel to think of anyone but herself, even when it comes to helping people. No, not people. Just Chloe. She's been "helping Chloe", and after all this time… is Chloe really any better off than she would be if Rachel had just kept her stupid nose out of Chloe's business?

Rachel isn't sure, but she doesn't know how to find out without rewinding, and lately… that hasn't been working out so well. In fact, it's been occupying Rachel's thoughts for the entirety of the time she's known she is no longer in control of her own life. Well, maybe the first version of it, but she can't remember a time when there hasn't also been a second, third, and even twenty-ninth version of it. She can't remember a life before mistakes were just a rewind away from being fixed and done away with. She's had the ability to rewind as far back as a whole day sometimes, if she wants to, since her problems involved dropping something out of a high chair or forgetting where she left her blue blanket with the satin edges.

Chloe shifts in her sleep and Rachel has to stand still as a statue so she doesn't send a ripple of her presence into the universe. Chloe can't know Rachel is here, bearing no breakfast, no phone charger, and no clothes. Maybe she can go home and get some supplies before—

Her phone chimes loudly from her pocket.

FUCK!

She must have forgotten to turn off the ringer in her spiteful little escape. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and switches off the volume before looking at the message.

It's from an unknown number:

 _GET HER BACK ON TRACK._

Rachel stares down at the message for a good long while.

Track? What track? She stares at Chloe through the open passenger side window of the truck, thinking how awful it must be to sleep with your neck in that position…

Another text comes through:

 _WHITE TRUCK = BATTERY._

Rachel whips her head around. What the living hell is going on? What truck? What battery? What "track"? She blocks the number in her phone settings. Is this another one of those Nathan tricks where he thinks he's being all clever and self-destructive, but really he's just being stupid and annoying like always? Rachel can't say for sure. Either way, she decides it's time to wake up Chloe.

She walks slowly over to the truck and gently maneuvers the handle until—

 _CREAAAAAAAAK!_

Goddamnit! Chloe bolts upright, quickly huddling into the far corner of the truck's cab and snatching the singing bobblehead to brandish like it's a weapon.

"God, that went a lot smoother in my head…" Rachel admits, her face burning red.

"Rachel?!" Chloe asks, her eyes wide with fear and surprise.

"What the hell are you planning to do with _that_ thing?" Rachel asks.

Chloe looks down at the bobblehead in her hands and quickly tosses it to the floor.

"Fuck if I know—you scared the shit outta me!" she says.

Her posture doesn't relax immediately, but once Rachel backs away from the door, Chloe looks a little more at ease.

"What are you doing here?" Chloe asks. "I thought you'd be out celebrating your show."

"Chloe, it's… it's eleven o'clock in the morning," Rachel says. "All that's long over."

"I don't really know how this stuff works," Chloe says.

"Well if I _was_ gonna celebrate… I certainly wouldn't do it without you," Rachel says, stuffing her hands in her pockets and blushing down at her feet.

Chloe frowns. "I said ten lines in a bird costume. What is there to celebrate?"

"You were there when we needed you," Rachel says. "When _I_ needed you. And… you looked badass in that costume. What _isn't_ there to celebrate?"

"Badass and glitter don't really go together," Chloe mutters.

"You haven't been referencing the proper source material," Rachel says with a mischievous smile. "I can fix that."

Chloe's cheeks turn ever so slightly pink as Rachel leans against the outside of the truck, batting her eyelashes and smiling that infallible smile. But smile or not, Rachel is trying her damnedest not to get any closer than she is to Chloe—not wanting to sit down and risk losing what little restraint she has left. She's exactly two feet of bench seat away from melting into Chloe Price and there's nothing she can do but stand here and try not to get too close.

"Maybe some other time," Chloe says casually as she stretches her arms over her head.

"Maybe…" Rachel mumbles to herself. "So listen… about the truck…"

"What about it?"

"Uh… I had… kind of an idea?" Rachel says. She hopes this is Nathan being helpful for once and not being a total asshole.

"Don't sound so sure of yourself," Chloe says. "Confidence is the least attractive quality a person can have."

Rachel runs her fingers through her hair nervously.

"Was I trying to be attractive?" she asks. She hopes it sounds convincingly aloof, but she's almost certain there's no way in hell it does.

"Some people don't have to try."

Rachel can't help but flash back to that time in the hallway… showing off in her costume, prancing around with her butt out asking Chloe what bits of fabric needed taking in.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Chloe Price," Rachel says with the smuggest smile she can muster. She hopes it looks real.

Chloe kicks open the stubborn truck door behind her and hops down from the bench seat. She stretches her back, her neck, her back again… then she bends over to touch her toes and wanders around the side of the truck to join Rachel.

"I'm starving," she tells Rachel. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Uh…" Rachel wants to say yes because she doesn't want to make a fuss out of her growling stomach, but that would reveal the fact that she had to make a conscious decision this morning about breakfast and then forgot Chloe was a human being, and—

"My Mom always says, 'If you have to think about it, you didn't'," Chloe tells her. "C'mon. I know a place."

Rachel can't think of anything to say, so she just follows along dumbly like a useless little sheep, regretting her selfishness and kicking herself for flirting when she so clearly ignored Chloe's needs.

"It's kinda funny," Chloe says. "I figured you'd have a million things on your weekend to-do list… this seems a little out of character for _The_ Rachel Amber."

"I make time for important things," Rachel says.

"Like interrupting my beauty sleep?"

"I didn't mean to… you can go back and sleep on your dirty hobo seat if you want."

"Thanks for the permission, princess. I'll be sure to do that as soon as I can feel my neck again," Chloe mutters, rubbing at the base of her skull.

"Y'know, we have a few muscle relaxing massages that we do sometimes before shows—"

"As much as I wanna picture Mr. Keaton rubbing down all of the theatre department, spare me the details," Chloe says.

"I was offering to massage you," Rachel says, reaching over and wrapping her hands around Chloe's shoulders.

Chloe slips out of her grasp.

"Seriously, princess. I'm good."

Who is this new Chloe? Rachel is redder in the face than she's been in a long time, arms crossed over her chest, watching her feet kick up junkyard dust… she wonders… is this the same Chloe who went beet-red at the sight of Rachel _pinching_ _fabric?_ It can't be. Something's different about her… something's changed.

"So… where are we going?" Rachel decides to ask, hoping it'll break the tension.

"There's only one place I can always get a free lecture with my meal," Chloe says.

"Meaning…?"

"You'll know it when you see it," she tells Rachel.

"I guess I trust you," Rachel says. "Not as much as I apparently trust Mr. Keaton, but…"

"You're so strange," Chloe says, but she has to admit it made her laugh.

For the first time since the last game they played on top of that hill in the park… Rachel had really made Chloe laugh. And then Chloe's arm makes its way into the crook of Rachel's arm… and the two walk together like that the whole way, neither really wanting to ask the other what exactly it means, just relishing the few brief moments of relief that neither of them has to ask permission to enjoy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Pushing**

Chloe barely has time to step through the front door of the Two Whales Diner before she's being smothered by a bacon-scented hug.

"Mom!" Chloe grunts. "Can't breathe!"

When Joyce releases her, Chloe tries her damnedest to ignore the amusement on Rachel Amber's smug little princess face.

"I was so worried when you didn't come home last night!" Joyce says, tears welling behind her eyes. "Don't you ever do that to me again, young lady, do you hear me?"

"Sorry, Mrs. Price," Rachel chimes in, all smiles and warmth. "She spent the night at my house. She was gonna text you, but her phone died and my charger doesn't fit."

Chloe makes note of the choice to say "Mrs." instead of "Ms." and finds it almost comforting. She knows Rachel must have done that on purpose, though she can't say whether it was more for Joyce... or for Chloe.

"You seem to be getting my daughter into a lot of tricky situations lately," Joyce says, regarding Rachel with what could almost be classified as a scowl. "I wonder if you're the sort of person she should be spending so much of her time with…"

"Mom, it's not her fault," Chloe says. "My phone's just dead. That's why we came to the diner."

What is she saying? Of _course_ it's Rachel Amber's fault. And she's madder than hell at the princess for everything under the sun. Maybe Chloe just wants the anger all to herself today; Joyce doesn't get to be upset with Rachel, only Chloe. That manipulative—

"How unlike you to be so considerate of my feelings…" Joyce says. "But you're here now, and that's what matters. Go ahead and grab a booth and I'll have the chef fix your favorite."

Chloe knows Joyce doesn't like the new chef at the Two Whales. Though… "Chef" is a polite word for him, really. He's a convict out on parole "taking jobs away from the hardworking townsfolk who ain't done nothin' to nobody to deserve starvin' on the streets". But it's not the chef's fault nobody in Arcadia Bay wants to do any job that doesn't include tossing a net into the oily water and reeling in old boots and tires. Some people just need a break. It worries Chloe that Joyce chooses not to see that most days.

It worries Chloe that people like _David_ deserve a second chance, but that Chloe and the chef do not. Is it because the chef and Chloe are both bad at being good? Is it because they both got kicked out of school and are stranded here in Arcadia Bay making a mess of their lives? Is it because neither of them served their country and neither of them have a mustache? Is it the fact that neither of them go home at night or wear clean clothes every day? Could it be the smoking? The drinking? The obsession with fifteen-year-old girls?

Chloe doesn't know.

All she can understand is that she feels like she deserves a second chance when she looks at Rachel Amber. _Which she shouldn't._ She's still angry about the play, but… no matter who she's looking at, she deserves to feel like she's got a shot at happiness, right? But what she doesn't understand is the look Rachel is giving her now across the table. What _is_ that? Some kind of doe-eyed look of wonder? Amusement? Maybe… affection? She can't pin it down. Maybe this is Rachel being a very good actress… or a very bad one. You should be able to tell what an actress is at least _trying_ to portray, right? Unless the goal is to be confusing… in which case she's doing an absolutely spot-on, bang-up job.

Rachel is the first to break the silence: "What are you thinking about?"

Chloe is taken aback.

Thinking? Chloe? Never. She can't tell _Rachel_ what she's thinking. Of all the people in all the world, Rachel is probably the _last_ person Chloe would tell about her thoughts. Okay, maybe Dickstache would be last. But Rachel would still be in the bottom three. And she certainly doesn't get to know how Chloe feels about last night. Maybe that's all part of the game Rachel's playing: Chloe gets to lie about what she likes and Rachel gets to improvise around it. Two people lying in perfect harmony at all times.

If Rachel can manipulate Chloe, Chloe can manipulate her right back.

"Just, uh… thinking about how dreery it looks outside," Chloe says.

That's right. Bring up the fire. See what "guilty" looks like on Rachel Amber.

"Really?" Rachel frowns.

"Y-yeah, it looks really dark… cloudy…"

Rachel looks out the window, all the while that frown doesn't leave her face.

"I… I don't think those are clouds, Chloe…" Rachel says quietly.

Chloe knows.

The glowing embers of the forest beyond the train tracks belch dark gray smoke into the air with a silent determination, a hulking shadow glowering over the pines and maples.

Chloe is wrenched back to the table by Joyce's timely coffee pour.

"You look exhausted," Joyce says. "Don't tell me you two were up all night…"

"We were helping my Mom pack for her business trip," Rachel says.

Where the hell did _that_ come from? Is her Mom really going on a trip? Wait… Rachel isn't allowed to lie to Joyce, even if it's to save Chloe's ass. _Chloe_ is the only one who's allowed to lie to Joyce. Sure, Chloe takes no pleasure in it, but sometimes it has to be done.

"Well that's… surprising," Joyce says, sliding a cup of coffee toward Rachel. She eyes Chloe with suspicion.

"She'll be in Greece for two weeks," Rachel says.

"Now _that_ sounds exciting, doesn't it," Joyce tells Rachel. There's a far-off look in Joyce's eye and Chloe can only imagine she's thinking about the coin jar on the half wall between the kitchen and the dining room. Spare change that will someday add up to two plane tickets to Paris. Someday... Chloe hopes.

Wait… how does Rachel know that Joyce wants to travel? Is it that obvious that a waitress in a dead-end town wants to escape her meager circumstances? How dare Rachel read Joyce like that! How dare she—

"She really loves the culture—her cousin owns a vineyard out there," Rachel says. "I'll ask her to bring you back a bottle of her cousin's Vinsanto. Personally, _I_ think it smells a bit like nail polish remover, but my parents say it's the best dessert wine they've ever had from a white grape. I guess some things just take a second impression to really enjoy."

Chloe can't tell if she's annoyed with Rachel or impressed. Her anger just melts and she hates that so much it hurts, but there's something magical about watching Rachel Amber work. Joyce is busy making her "oh please, I couldn't possibly accept that" polite refusal and Rachel is insisting it's no trouble at all, they have a case shipped over every other month. And Chloe is just sitting there, chin resting in her hand, wondering why Rachel looks so pretty in the dim light of the foreboding sky outside the Two Whales Diner. Though… Chloe has to admit, Rachel has never really looked ugly to her. Only sneaky. Only terrifying. Only lying and manipulative, but never ugly. Though often the most brightly-colored animals are the most poisonous. The prettiest things tend to yield the most danger. Fire blinds with beauty; you're so transfixed by it, you don't even notice it eating its way down the hill to destroy everything fleshy you love.

It's easy to get lost in a girl like Rachel Amber. Everything about her is deep and vacuous and… like there's something missing. Something about Rachel just doesn't add up, no matter how much Chloe furrows her brow about it. No matter how hard she concentrates on the arc of Rachel's cheekbones or the shallow curve of her nose. No matter how deeply she stares into those hazel eyes, there's nothing she can do to make the veil tip out of the way and reveal the edges of the drama queen's mask.

Food is set before the two of them and Rachel stops schmoozing Joyce just long enough to start eating.

Joyce makes her coffee rounds at the counter, insisting to the police officer that he could use another cup—and some more bacon while she's headed to the kitchen.

"You seem distracted," Rachel says to Chloe finally.

"From what?"

"From right now," Rachel says. "Y'know… the present. What's going on with you, Chloe?"

"Nothing, I… I guess it's just weird being here. I didn't think it would be."

"Weird how?" Rachel asks.

"Weird because she doesn't seem mad at me," Chloe says. "She should be mad."

"She just wants you to be safe, Chloe," Rachel tells her. "She just needed help seeing that, I think."

"We don't need help—"

But Rachel isn't listening. "It's easy to get caught up in what happened and lose sight of how much you love someone, even after they've done something wrong."

"You're not talking about Joyce, are you…" Chloe asks.

"What?" Rachel says, frowning. She doesn't seem quite herself. "Of course I'm talking about Joyce. Who else—"

Neither of them has to bring up James before Rachel stops herself short.

"Chloe…" she says quietly. "I'm-um… I'm really sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

Yeah, what the hell _is_ wrong with Rachel? So what if her dad is cheating on her mom? People cheat. Parents cheat. At least she _has_ both her parents. At least they're alive and fighting and being quietly disappointed in her. And Chloe's right back to being angry with the ungrateful little—

"There's nothing wrong with you," Chloe says.

Dammit. Here she goes again.

"No, I… I really shouldn't be taking this out on you," Rachel says. "I thought… I thought the other night would've taught me that much. Your situation is hard enough without me butting in and twisting things around."

"We're both going through some stuff," Chloe says. "I think we need to give ourselves permission to feel whatever we're feeling without having to apologize for it."

Rachel looks at Chloe for a long time before speaking. She starts off at a frown, but eventually melts into a look of something more like what a person who's never felt it before might consider gratitude.

"I don't know what to say," she tells Chloe.

"You don't have to say anything. We should just eat and get outta here before my Mom starts trying to drag me home."

Where is this coming from? Chloe doesn't even believe what she's saying. It's just dribbling out of her mouth outside of her control. _She would_ _never say that_.

Rachel doesn't respond, she just eats her pancakes quietly, every once in a while pausing to look up at Chloe… maybe wondering if Chloe is looking at her too. Hoping that… just maybe… there's a chance that—

She's not. She's busy seething over the fact that she can't seem to maintain control of her stupid fucking mouth when Rachel Amber is around. Why _is_ that?!

"Do you maybe wanna come over later?" Rachel says finally.

"F-for… what exactly?"

"I don't know… a shower maybe? Some clothes? I think my charger actually _does_ work with your phone…"

"Are you tryin' to tell me I stink or something?" Chloe asks.

"If that's what it takes, then yes."

"Well I happen to think I _don't_ smell. So I'll pass, but thanks for the offer," Chloe says, crossing her arms.

Chloe can hear the faint sound of Rachel's phone buzzing on the bench seat. It occurs to her that Rachel probably has a thousand other things she'd rather be doing than hanging out with Chloe… boring old Chloe with no Dad who just got kicked out of high school.

Rachel checks the message and sighs.

"C'mon, Chloe. It's Saturday."

"So what?"

"So... we're having steak for dinner."

"You think you can bribe me with meat?" Chloe asks.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Rachel says smugly.

Her phone buzzes again and she stuffs it back in her pocket.

"Do you need to get that?" Chloe asks. She can suddenly sense the agitation coming off Rachel in droves.

"No, no. Just a friend," Rachel says. "I'll talk to him later."

"Is everything okay?"

"It'll be better when you come over and have steak with me," Rachel says.

Her phone continues to buzz.

Chloe leans back in her seat. "Why are you so determined to—"

"Why are you so fucking stubborn?!"

Chloe raises an eyebrow. Now _there's_ the princess. Rachel immediately looks like she regrets that move… but Chloe knows better than to take anything from Rachel Amber at face value. Maybe she _wants_ Chloe to think she regrets that little outburst. She wants Chloe to feel sorry for her emotional distress and crack under the weight of her guilt.

"Chloe, I'm… I'm sorry."

"You've been doing a lot of apologizing today, haven't you…" Chloe says.

"I just don't… I can't go home alone right now, and I don't know how to tell you why."

"Just say it how it comes and we'll fix it later," Chloe tells her. And then she prepares to be heavily manipulated. Maybe her mouth won't listen to her brain, but at least she knows that she's getting herself into Rachel Amber's pile of trash _knowing_ that it's trash.

"My… Mom left," Rachel says.

"Two weeks in Greece?" Chloe asks.

"No… more like two months in a hotel."

The affair. She must've gotten wind of it.

"How'd she find out?" Chloe asks.

"She hasn't," Rachel says. "I haven't told her anything."

"Then why's she leaving?"

"They had a fight about… something," Rachel tells Chloe.

"You sound like you know what it was about."

"I do know."

"You don't wanna tell me?" Chloe asks.

"Not really."

"Okay… I mean, they're your parents. You don't have to tell me," Chloe shrugs.

Rachel leans back in the booth, crossing her arms and biting her lip.

"Look, if you wanna tell me—" Chloe starts.

"I don't."

"Okay, that's totally fine. Your business is your business."

"I know!" Rachel says, a little agitated. She looks down at the empty plate on the table, frowning at it like it's done something wrong.

"Okay…" Chloe says.

Whatever the fuck. She doesn't really care what Rachel's parents fought about. It was probably about the meeting with Wells and the fact that their star student just shot herself in the foot with a lame escape plan and a bad ditch buddy. She imagines they fought about how James treated Chloe and how he treats everyone he thinks isn't good enough for his perfect little daughter to be seen with.

"Hey, uh… thanks," Rachel says.

"For what?"

"For not… ya know. Pushing me."

"Yeah… no problem…"

"So are you coming over?" Rachel asks.

"You didn't exactly sell me on the idea…"

"But I need you…" Rachel says.

Oh no. No, no, no. Not this again. Not another "come to this place because I said so". That didn't work out so well last time. Or the time before. Every time Rachel Amber has picked the venue, something bad has happened, and Chloe can't really deal with anymore bad things right now. She just wants to eat her omelette in peace. No more bullshit. Just—

"Okay, fine," Chloe says.

NOOOOOO!

 _YOU NEED TO GO TO THE AMBER HOUSE._

Chloe knows what's there. She doesn't want to go. She can't. The Amber House is where she'll be when Rachel tells her something unforgivable. She knows it because that's just what it feels like. She'll figure something out. She'll be told something. Rachel will do something that will make everything so much worse—she's sure of it. No destiny of Chloe's that takes place in the Amber House will ever be good for Chloe… not where the DA lives and works. Rachel has to know that. She has to know that Chloe isn't meaning to say any of the things she's saying. She has to understand that it isn't Chloe's fault she's going along with all this.

 _She doesn't want to go to the Amber House._

But Rachel thanks Joyce so warmly as they leave the diner… Joyce smiles such a grateful smile… it's emptying. It's really emptying. And Chloe is convinced that William is right: Rachel is paying for this in other ways. Nobody can get along with everyone, get everything they want, and be perfectly perfect at everything without some kind of price. Maybe Chloe is the one paying for it. Who knows? Maybe the Amber House is how they'll both pay for it.

But something's going to happen there, Chloe is positive. Something important. And there's nothing she can do but go along with it, follow Rachel out into the parking lot, take her hand when she offers it… and walk like that the entire way to the place where nothing good can possibly be in store.

Chloe knows she's pushing her luck every time she goes anywhere with Rachel Amber, though. There's nothing new about that in the slightest.


	9. Chapter 9

**Undo**

Rachel tries so hard to ignore the buzzing in her pocket. Don't read the texts. Don't look at them. Just hold Chloe's hand. One foot in front of the other, Rachel. Just move your legs. You're going home. Don't sweat too much on Chloe's hand. Just one foot… then the other foot… then—

"Are you okay?" Chloe asks.

"Yeah, why?" Rachel says.

"Um… I wasn't gonna say anything, but… you're sort of crushing me."

Rachel looks down at her hand performing some sort of death grip on Chloe's.

"Shit!" Rachel drops Chloe's hand. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Chloe says. "I didn't mind the… the holding part, necessarily, I just… ya know, circulation is a must."

Rachel feels the odd temptation to laugh and finds the strength to suppress it. There's nothing on earth she wants to do less than laugh at the fact that she nearly peeled the skin off Chloe's hand like a glove.

"God, I don't know. It's just been… I've had a lot of trouble focusing lately since this whole… _thing_. I don't even have a word for it. This… _mess_ ," Rachel says.

It feels wrong to admit it, but Rachel hasn't really been present with Chloe. She's been bobbing and weaving and trying to duck past the swinging shitstorm swirling overhead, which has made it impossible to even begin to be conscious of Chloe. Ever since the park, ever since she saw the worst thing she could never unsee, everything has been circling around in rough-edged pieces with the intent to kill. Or maim. Or otherwise disfigure Chloe's hand…

"Do I dare ask which mess?" Chloe laughs.

"Take your pick, they're all pretty bad," Rachel says.

"Yeah, well… it's _messy_ down here sometimes," Chloe says with a chuckle.

"Down where?"

"The mortal world where creatures like you rarely deign to trod," Chloe says theatrically.

"Is that really what you think of me?"

"Sometimes..." Chloe says, "it feels like you're from a whole other planet."

"And the other times?"

"It feels like you're from here, but you don't wanna be."

"I _do_ want to be here—and _from_ here. It's just hard sometimes to be vulnerable about things that I'm not used to talking about with anybody," Rachel says. "I'm not… I'm not good at talking about my personal life. I think that's why I've managed to stay as well-liked as I am."

"Well-liked?" Chloe says. "You're everyone's favorite everything."

"Not everyone's," Rachel tells Chloe.

She realizes that sounded desperate. Is Rachel Amber a desperate sort of person? Can she pull it off? Maybe. She's definitely the type of person who gets what she wants, so maybe desperate is a part of that. Maybe desperate is just a pitstop between not-being-taken-seriously and getting-what-she-wants. But maybe this one was a bit too far. Chloe doesn't realize how badly Rachel just wants to be liked by one girl in particular…

"Well we can't all be everyone's cup of tea, can we," Chloe says matter-of-factly.

"N-no… I guess not," Rachel says, sticking her hands into her pockets in defeat.

"Speaking of tea—" Chloe starts.

 _BUZZ BUZZ._

 _BUZZ BUZZ._

Not now. Not now!

"See? People are always trying to commune with the gods," Chloe says, gesturing to Rachel's buzzing pocket.

"It's _person_ ," Rachel mutters. "Not people."

"Who?"

"Just a friend," Rachel says.

"Sorry, it's none of my business," Chloe says.

And Rachel is astounded that Chloe clearly doesn't care and isn't offended that Rachel doesn't want to talk about how Nathan has been jerking her chain all day about a car battery and dinner at the Amber House. Or… Rachel _hopes_ it's just Nathan.

"No, no. It's fine," Rachel says quickly. "It's, uh… are you familiar with many people in the art department?"

"I try to stay away from those airheads whenever possible," Chloe mutters.

"Then you might not know him."

"Yeah, you're probly right," Chloe says.

What? How is she not curious? She seems so… calm. So unbothered. If Chloe was keeping a secret like this from Rachel, there's no way in hell the conversation would end with something as weak as 'you might not know him'. Thinking back on it, Rachel isn't satisfied with her lie. She can definitely do better.

"But it's a small place. I'm sure you know more people than you think you do," Rachel says.

Now what is Rachel up to? She doesn't _really_ want to talk about Nathan with Chloe. She doesn't want to talk about the texts and have to go into detail about how they know each other and how someone like Nathan Prescott might have gotten information on Chloe and the contents of the junkyard. So what is she doing?

"No, I really only kept to myself there. I probly don't know him," Chloe says.

How is she so calm?! How is this not digging at her? Stop it. Stop trying to get her to ask questions. You don't _want_ her to ask questions, just be done with it.

"You didn't have _any_ friends in the art department?" Rachel asks.

"Look, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not really good at the whole 'high school experience' thing. I don't really mesh well with Blackhell people," Chloe says.

"You mesh pretty well with _me_ ," Rachel says.

"I don't know if you could really say that…"

"Then what _could_ you say?"

"That we've been at the wrong place at the wrong time a lot together," Chloe says. "Something bad always tends to happen when we show up at the same time."

"Things have been shitty for us lately. That's not down to anything we've done," Rachel says.

"Or maybe it _is_ ," Chloe tells her.

"Let's just forget about it, okay?" Rachel says. "This is stupid. Let's just—"

"You kinda had a point though," Chloe says. "I _have_ been feeling a little like things are out of my control."

"What things?"

"Like basically everything that's happened since I met you," Chloe says.

"In a good way?" Rachel asks.

"Not… really, no…"

"Are you saying it's _my_ fault you got suspended?"

"I think it's _both_ our faults," Chloe shrugs. "But I might be in a different boat right now if we hadn't met when we did…"

"I saved you from those dickholes, remember? You might be _dead_ right now if we hadn't met when we did."

Chloe gestures to the fire in the distance. "Basically every minute I spend in Arcadia Bay is like being dead. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad."

"You're being dramatic."

"Says the drama queen…" Chloe mutters.

"If I remember correctly, _you_ were the one in the bird costume on stage last night agreeing to run away with me," Rachel says.

"Well maybe we aren't _supposed_ to run away together."

"Chloe, that's… that's probably the worst thing anybody's ever said."

"I didn't mean for it to be an insult," Chloe says. "It's just hard to deny that a lot of bad stuff has happened every time we've hung out. Your Dad, the tree, the suspension—"

"And some really _good_ stuff, too," Rachel says. "Like this, for example."

"We're just walking."

"And this is probably the most honest conversation I've ever had with another human being in my life," Rachel says.

"Well I'm glad you're feeling sharey, but seriously," Chloe says. "What if we're not really the best combination?"

"Chloe…"

"And I know a lot of it is my fault, but… I'm just not good at being with people. I'm not good at the whole 'caring' and 'being open' and not destroying things that come into my life to help me. Whenever something good happens, it's usually bullshit and I'd rather be prepared for that."

Rachel stops walking.

Chloe doesn't notice at first, but when she does, she turns around.

"What are you doing?" she asks Rachel.

"How can you say that?" Rachel says. "How can you tell me this is bullshit when all I wanna do is care about you and be open with you and… touch you like I'm not gonna leave some kind of mark? How can you talk to me and not realize there's nothing I want more than exactly what we are?"

"That's fine, for now," Chloe says. "But I know I'm ruining it. I can't help it. I'm just... ruining everything. Can't you see it? I'm not doing this—this isn't me. It's not real, none of it's real."

Rachel reaches out and takes Chloe's hands—gently this time, and with every intention of keeping it that way.

"Please, Chloe… don't undo this. This _is_ real. This is us… I'm right here, and I wanna make this work with you."

"Then why did you have to say it in a costume?" Chloe asks. "Why couldn't you tell me as yourself?"

Rachel feels the deep, throbbing ache of that one. The swollen wave. Chloe's right. As much as it hurts and as much as Rachel would never admit it… Rachel isn't telling the whole truth.

"Isn't that what _this_ is?" Rachel asks.

"I thought this was us having a 'superpower'," Chloe mutters.

"It's me begging you to like me back—or at least pretend to…"

"You'd rather I pretend than tell you the truth?" Chloe asks.

"Yes," Rachel says. "I'm not doing this because I can't stand not being liked. I'm doing it because I've seen my life with you in it now… and I can't just take that back. For once in my life, this is something too powerful to undo."

"You don't make any sense," Chloe says. "For once, this isn't _about you_. It's about the fact that we're not good around each other—we make a mess."

"I didn't do this so we could be clean, Chloe. I didn't save you from those creeps or bring you to the park because I wanted things to be neat."

"Then why _did_ you? Why me?"

"Because I saw something in you that I haven't seen in anyone else. There's something impossible in you that isn't easy to find."

"Nothing's impossible," Chloe says. "Not even me."

"But you _are_. You're impossibly stubborn, and impossibly loyal and fierce… you're impossibly kind and impossibly sweet when it matters…"

"You say that like you know me," Chloe says.

"I do."

"For three days," Chloe says.

"But it feels like longer…"

Rachel really hopes Chloe doesn't ask for clarification on that one, because there's really no way out but the truth. And the truth is the real mess. Time is a mess. Meeting and un-meeting and remembering and forgetting… that's the mess.

"I… guess it does…" Chloe says slowly.

"There's a meant-to-be-ness about us, Chloe Price. There's a fire here. And I think we both know better than to play with fire…"

"Honestly, I don't think I'd be upset if I never saw it again," Chloe says.

"Then let's not fight it. Let's just see what this is before we try to decide if it's worth anything or not," Rachel says.

"Are you suggesting we appraise our friendship?"

"I'm saying we try out our superpower," Rachel tells Chloe. "You can't expect to control a power you don't understand."

"You wanna control it?"

"Well I'd rather it didn't control _me_ ," Rachel says. "But I guess how you handle it is entirely up to you…"

"I think I'd rather be in the driver's seat," Chloe says.

"Good," Rachel says. "Because I think you look hella sexy behind a steering wheel."

Rachel watches Chloe go a deep shade of red, and smiles smugly to herself. _That's_ the Chloe she remembers. And no matter how many times she rewound away that beet-red girl in the beanie, Rachel could always count on the fact that she would reappear in one form or another, ready to stand in for cool, confident, unbothered Chloe. That was one fact she could always count on. That was one thing Rachel could never undo.


	10. Chapter 10

**Consent**

It's that tree again. Chloe has been avoiding that tree: the stained glass door that keeps the world out... and the Ambers in. A shield for the fakers and the actors in the house. Chloe imagines it's hard for the DA to live in a glass house the way he does without some sort of protection. It must be hard for someone like Rachel to have to keep things to herself, though. Sure, she _says_ she doesn't like to talk about her personal life, but Chloe knows that's as much of a lie as everything else the princess has said. All she's _done_ is talk about her personal life. All she's done is show Chloe her most naked truth and then deny it as hard as she possibly can. And Chloe knows the show is only just beginning the minute she walks through the front door of The Amber House.

The golden brown interior is sterile in ways Chloe didn't think possible for wood, but there is a glint to the china cabinets and vast oil paintings that makes everything appear trapped under a thick coat of laquer. Warm, golden honey clinging to the wooden floors, the brightly-colored windows—not a single one without stained glass panes or a drawn shade—the yellow-tinted tables and chairs… Chloe feels much the way some prehistoric bug might feel if it were to be trapped in a cocoon of Amber.

"My room's this way," Rachel says as she starts to head upstairs.

Chloe realizes she's just been standing there in the front hallway staring at the family portrait by the coat rack. Paris. And they looked happy there. Who _wouldn't_ look happy in Paris though? If it had to be anyone, Chloe can only imagine it would be James pooping on the Paris party, but there he is… smiling, his arms around his wife and daughter. He looks a bit stiff, but that might just be the suit. It reminds her of Principal Wells and his baggy gray sport coat and flat pink shirt. In the summer he can be caught with sweat stains under his arms most of the time, and a yellowing collar. People like James Amber wouldn't be caught dead looking disheveled in Paris of all places. No, stiff is more his look. Stiff looks good on James Amber.

"Chloe?" Rachel says.

"Sorry, I'm coming."

Chloe doesn't hold onto the railing on her way up the stairs because she's afraid to get her fingerprints all over the shiny surface. That's the last thing she needs right now: to be the dull spot on the perfect surface of something that belongs to Rachel. Rachel doesn't seem to mind getting _her_ fingerprints on the railing, but maybe she's the one who polishes everything to a mirror finish in the first place. Maybe she knows about futile work and doing it anyway. Maybe she knows all about not being good enough, but still trying to be regardless of the fact that there will never be enough "try" in the world to polish a turd.

But Chloe doesn't think Rachel is a turd.

Manipulative, shady, and selfish maybe, but not a turd.

Rachel pushes open the door at the end of the hallway and holds it for Chloe.

"After you," she says.

And then Chloe has the most unforgivable thought.

Upon stepping into Rachel's room… upon seeing the purple and blue striped walls and the childish underbelly of this girl's life… the simple white furniture and the glowing star stickers above the headboard… Chloe feels like she's stepped into something so sad and innocent that it can't be touched even gently with the foul thoughts she's dredging through.

"Welcome to Chateau Rachel," she tells Chloe, closing the door quietly behind the two of them.

A flannel-covered lamp casts an orange glow over the nearby bulletin board that outlines what appears to be Rachel's interest in stars and… her various patrons. Well-wishers' cards line her dresser, congratulating her on her performances and celebrating her birthdays over the years. Chloe wonders what sort of person keeps a birthday card with a "2005" scrawled across the top corner. She must've been no more than ten. What ten-year-old keeps their birthday cards once they've taken out the crisp twenty-dollar bill?

"It's…" Chloe doesn't know where to go from there. She knows she should compliment Rachel's taste in thrasher posters or even say something nice about how organized things seem… or even anything kind and measured about the way she really feels the presence of someone hopeful here… but she just can't find the words.

"Not what you were expecting?" Rachel asks, leaning against the door with her arms crossed.

"Honestly, no."

"What _was_ Chloe Price expecting then?" Rachel asks.

"I guess… more of… _you_."

"Which is…?"

"More volatile than pastels and star charts," Chloe says.

Shit. That's not an amused look Rachel's shooting Chloe anymore. That's… that's an _offended_ look.

"I didn't mean that you're—it's not…" Chloe starts.

"Is that what you think of me?" Rachel asks, a deep frown creasing her face.

"Honestly, yeah."

"Maybe I don't like you being so honest," Rachel mutters, brushing past Chloe to sit on the bed. She does it moodily, in a way Chloe never imagined a person could sit with attitude. How can someone so calm and forgiving be such a child?

Ah. Now Chloe gets the purple stripes.

"Nevermind," Chloe says. "This actually makes a lot of sense."

"I'm not sure which is worse," Rachel grumbles.

"You can't be mad at me about both," Chloe says. "Besides… _you asked_. I didn't volunteer."

"Your initial silence was volunteering."

"And your following 'what were you expecting' was encouragement," Chloe says. "You can't ask me what I think and then be mad when I tell you the truth. That's bogus."

"So now _I'm_ the bad guy."

"You're joking…" Chloe says.

Rachel's phone starts buzzing in her pocket. She rips it out and tosses it to the corner of the room.

"What the fuck is wrong with you and that damn phone?" Chloe asks.

"Nothing!" Rachel snaps. "Just… go take a fucking shower. You stink."

"If I take a shower, am I gonna come back to a crazy person? Or are you gonna chill the fuck out and stop asking me so many questions you don't want answers to?"

"This is why you don't have friends—you can't talk to people like that!" Rachel says.

"Jesus, it's like playing operation with you! Except everything is the buzzing metal shit and you can't touch _anything_!"

"Maybe you shouldn't _want_ to touch anything, did _that_ ever occur to you?"

"Who said I wanted to touch you?" Chloe shoots back.

" _You did_!" Rachel says. "When you talked about _Taming of the Shrew_ and stared at my ass and—"

"What are you talking about?" Chloe asks.

Oh shit. Rachel tries to quickly reel it back in.

"I see the way you look at me, Chloe Price. I know what goes on in your twisted little mind," Rachel says.

"You're literally an insane person…" Chloe says. "You definitely know that, right?"

"Even now you're thinking about it, aren't you!" Rachel says.

Good. Yes, blow it way up and over the top and maybe Chloe will forget about the _Taming of the Shrew_ comment and the fact that Rachel just referenced a time that she rewound and banished from Chloe's memory because it was too embarrassing to actually live.

"I'm not thinking about that at all!" Chloe says. Where is this coming from? What kind of trap is Rachel laying out?

"That? _That?!"_ Rachel says.

"Y-yeah… I'm not—"

"Give it up, Chloe. I'm not stupid—everyone wants to fuck me. I'm the forbidden fruit."

Chloe's jaw drops.

" _What?!_ " Chloe manages to say before Rachel starts rummaging through her drawers and throwing shirts at Chloe. She can't tell if Rachel is attacking or not… but there are sharper-looking objects she could be using if that were the case…

Rachel throws together an outfit piece by piece and tosses it at Chloe.

"Take a fucking shower, you kid-fucking pervert. And come talk to me when you're done defiling me with your mind," Rachel says.

Chloe just stares at her with an armful of clothes, mouth still agape, eyes wide with terror. Rachel called her a _what now_?!

"Oh, and give me those," Rachel says, pointing to Chloe's jeans. "I'll throw them in the wash. I don't think mine are long enough for you."

"What, like right now?" Chloe says.

"Ohw, are you shy?" Rachel asks mockingly. "You sure weren't shy the other day when you poked your grubby little head into my dressing room, were you."

"You asked me to bring you the belt!"

"I didn't expect such personal delivery…" Rachel says with that mischievous smirk.

Chloe is astounded. What kind of mood is this? How can someone go from being such a complete mental case to flirting in five minutes? How on earth is this even humanly possible? And why isn't Chloe mad about it?

She holds the pile of clothes in one arm and uses the other to fumble with the zipper of her pants.

"Do you seriously need help right now?" Rachel asks with a heavy sigh. She slides a drawer closed and moseys over to Chloe.

"No, no. I got it," Chloe insists, but Rachel's deft fingers are already upon her, and it's like the zipper was never there.

Rachel watches Chloe turn red, and she hopes to God it's not from anger. She lets go of Chloe's pants and takes a small step backwards.

"I'm sure you can handle the rest," she says, but Chloe doesn't move right away. She stands there frozen for a second with her pants halfway off her hips… staring at Rachel like a deer in headlights.

"Today, princess. I've got lives to save and nails to file over here," Rachel says.

Chloe snaps out of it and manages to kick off her pants without too much trouble. Rachel scoops them off the floor and points a demanding finger towards the bathroom.

"Towels are in the linen closet on the left. Use whatever shampoo you want," she tells Chloe, who doesn't protest.

As Chloe disappears into the bathroom, Rachel chuckles a little to herself. Maybe she meant for that to be uncomfortable. Maybe she meant for it to catch Chloe off guard. Either way, it definitely took focus away from her earlier slip-up. But maybe _too_ much attention. Or rather… attention of the wrong kind…

She hears her phone buzz and heaves a sigh.

Wait.

That's not Rachel's phone…

It's coming from Chloe's pants…

Rachel waits until she hears the water start running in the bathroom and then digs through Chloe's pockets to find her flip phone.

She reads "UNAVAILABLE" on the front screen and rolls her eyes. Of course it's a spam message. Nothing juicy here. Just a—

Rachel's phone buzzes from across the room. She sets Chloe's phone on the dresser and goes to retrieve her own. A pile of messages from Nathan has formed, each one of them more frantic and cryptic than the last. He must be tripping on some serious shit if he thinks Rachel is going to listen to him after that car battery thing.

She scrolls down the list, catching the highlights from the diner… don't bring up the fire… don't talk about David… don't order the turkey bacon… blah blah blah…

 _DON'T READ THE TEXT._

Rachel stops.

The text?

She looks over at Chloe's phone on the dresser.

UNAVAILABLE waiting to be read…

Don't read the text…

She looks back at the name scrawled across the top of her own screen.

UNAVAILABLE.

Is Nathan texting Chloe?

Rachel goes back to investigate and her phone starts blowing up with new messages. She ignores all of them, flipping open Chloe's phone and hitting the button that will take her to messages. She scrolls through Chloe's contacts… the various unread texts from Joyce and a few from someone named Eliot. Wait, is that nerd Eliot? Eliot with the hideously large feet and forgettable features? Probably.

Justin asking about a hookup… something from a few months ago from someone named Max…

There is is.

UNAVAILABLE.

She opens the text:

 _DON'T LEAVE YOUR PHONE WITH RACHEL._

She can feel the hair on the back of her neck slowly start to stand on end. A heat washes through her face as she feels an uncomfortable surge of fear rush through her. She looks around the room. What the absolute hell is going on?

She looks back at some of the other texts:

 _YOU NEED TO GO TO THE AMBER HOUSE._

What?

Rachel's phone stops buzzing on the floor.

A deep silence fills the space between water droplets falling in the shower, and Rachel's forehead is coated in sweat before she even reads Chloe's response:

 _no i dont._

She doesn't even notice Chloe come back into the room.

"What are you doing with my phone?" Chloe asks casually.

Rachel doesn't respond.

"Hello? Earth to drama queen? Hang on—you're not talking to my Mom, are you?"

Rachel doesn't look up at Chloe, just hands her the phone with the UNAVAILABLE message open.

"Yeah, I have no idea who the hell that is," Chloe says. "I figured it was just some sort of practical joker being a dick."

Rachel points to her own phone on the floor.

"What is this, charades?" Chloe asks, fetching the phone.

But then she looks at the word flashing on the front screen:

UNAVAILABLE.

"Wait… what the hell?" Chloe says, opening Rachel's phone and scrolling through the messages. "These are about the diner… and the junkyard… and—"

"I thought it was Nathan until I saw yours," Rachel says. "Now I'm not so sure."

"So somebody's watching you and you don't think that's weird?" Chloe asks.

"Everyone's _always_ watching me," Rachel mutters. "But I blocked the number this morning. I don't know how I keep getting the messages."

"Well if it's not Nathan, then who the hell is it?" Chloe asks.

"I don't know," Rachel says. "And I'm not sure I want to."

Chloe sits down on the bed next to Rachel.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Chloe asks.

"We get through dinner with my Dad," she says. "And then we figure out what the fuck is happening to us."

"Okay," Chloe says, but it's not. It's not okay that she's terrified of the unknown and what it might mean. It's not okay that she's wearing Rachel Amber's clothes, sitting on Rachel Amber's bed, rubbing Rachel Amber's back and not feeling any of it. And it's definitely not okay that something dangerous might be going on without either of them doing it, and without either of their consent.


	11. Chapter 11

**Cosmic Responses**

"Whadda ya mean 'he won't notice'?" Chloe whispers.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "You don't have to whisper. He wouldn't leave his office if the house was on fire."

"It sort of is…" Chloe says. She can't see out the windows, but she knows what lurks on the other side of that stained glass: a fire big enough to consume all of Arcadia Bay in minutes if it was close enough.

Rachel is either deaf or pretending not to hear that last bit as she pads down the stairs in her bare feet and makes her way to the china cabinet in the dining room.

"Sherry anyone?" she asks, peeling open the door and reaching for the glass bottle of fino.

"I'm more into the harder stuff, myself…" Chloe says. "But I think I've given up the right to be picky."

"Sherry it is."

Rachel carefully closes the cabinet door and tucks the bottle under her arm. The two girls make their way back upstairs to Rachel's room and sit cross-legged on the bed.

"Are you sure he won't see it's missing later?" Chloe asks.

"Probably not," Rachel says, but she isn't sure if she's telling the truth or not. "I don't think he's been paying attention to much lately."

"Since your Mom…?"

"I say lately… I mean never," Rachel tells Chloe. "He's never paying attention."

"That's gotta be hard."

"It's like not having a D—"

Rachel stops herself. Of all the people she could've opened her big mouth and started to say that to, she just said it in front of Chloe Price. The only girl in all of Blackwell with a dead Dad.

"I think it might be worse than not having one," Chloe says. "You _know_ what you're missing. He's right there, he's just _choosing_ not to pay attention. My Dad didn't choose, he just died. It wasn't his fault."

"I… guess that's true… in a way," Rachel says.

She hands Chloe the bottle of sherry and watches her tip the bottle. She takes a wary swig and scrunches her nose.

"He _likes_ this stuff?" she asks Rachel.

"I don't think anybody drinks because they like it. They drink to feel better."

"I thought that's just what _we_ were doing," Chloe says.

"It's what everyone does," Rachel reassures her. "To feel better, or to loosen up so they can do things they know they shouldn't."

"I guess we're doing that too," Chloe chuckles as she passes the bottle to Rachel.

"No, we totally _should_ be finding out who this 'Unknown' jackass is. It's hella creepy that they've been texting us cryptic shit and telling us what to do."

"They also sort of saved me one time…" Chloe says.

"When?"

"I was walking in the street and they warned me about a car."

"Would you have been walking in the street if you weren't distracted by the texts?" Rachel asks.

"I guess not."

"Then they didn't save you. They put you in danger."

"But they also told me about the spiked tea at the play," Chloe says. "They said not to let you drink it."

"Yeah, and it knocked Victoria Chase on her ass," Rachel laughs.

"But that tea was clearly meant for _you_ , not Victoria."

"Listen, if they knew about the tea, they didn't do anything about it. And knowing about something like that makes them just as dangerous as the person who put it there. I don't care who it was for—you don't give knockout tea to someone you don't wanna knock out."

"You don't think they put it there to get Victoria out of the way so you could play Prospera?" Chloe asks.

"Fuck if I know," Rachel says. "But you don't poison somebody to get your dream cast—even crummy Victoria Chase."

"But what if something worse was going to happen if you weren't in the play?" Chloe asks. "What if being in the play saved you from something terrible?"

"Okay, like what?"

"I don't know… what if somebody had a hit out on you or something, and being on stage saved your ass?"

"What's with you and my ass?" Rachel asks.

"N-nothing! I meant it figuratively, not—"

"My figure or my ass, Chloe—which is it?"

"Jesus! You know what I meant!" Chloe says, snatching back the sherry and taking another swig.

Rachel laughs and reaches for the sherry.

"I wanna do something kinda weird," Rachel says, taking a gulp of sherry and then scooting it onto the dresser.

"Um…"

"It's fine, don't worry. I just wanna play another game," Rachel says.

"The last few times didn't go so well, princess," Chloe tells her.

"But this time is different."

"Different how?"

"I guess details about you based on your star sign, and you tell me if I'm right," Rachel says.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch," Rachel says. "Okay, maybe one catch. You have to hold my hands. It's how our energies will align."

"What the fuck?"

"Shut up and gimme your hands, Chloe," Rachel says, moving closer so the two are facing each other, legs crossed, knees touching.

Chloe eyes Rachel suspiciously but places her hands palm-up on her knees. Rachel places her own hands on Chloe's a takes a deep breath, closing her eyes meditatively.

"This is ridiculous," Chloe mumbles.

"And voluntary," Rachel reminds her. "Now close your eyes and transfer me your energy."

Chloe groans and does as she's told.

Sort of.

She thinks so anyway, it's hard to tell if you're transferring energy or just holding your breath.

"Now let's see…" Rachel says. "Chloe Price… you're a Pisces, aren't you?"

"I guess so…"

"This game doesn't work if you don't know yourself," Rachel says.

"Fine, yes. Pisces. Whatever," Chloe says.

"Good. Now… I'm sensing a lot of… residual teen angst here…"

"You don't need me to transfer my energy for that one," Chloe says under her breath.

"Okay, okay. But there's more. You've been worrying more than usual lately…"

"How do you know?" Chloe asks.

"A lady never reveals her tricks, or her age," Rachel says.

"Then you'll have no problem telling me."

"Are you suggesting I'm not a lady?" Rachel asks.

"I've seen no evidence," Chloe tells her.

"Maybe, if you're lucky, I'll prove it," Rachel replies, and Chloe can hear the smirk on her face just by the way she says, "if you're lucky".

"I'm not usually very lucky, if you haven't noticed," Chloe says.

"And not very good at hiding the fact that you've been biting your nails again."

"Again?"

"Just… I noticed a few days ago you had longer nails," Rachel says. "I assumed you've been biting them because you're worried about something."

"So you didn't get that from my energy?" Chloe asks, ignoring the fact that Rachel didn't really answer her question. Has she looked at Chloe's nails before?

"Okay, fine. Let me try again."

Chloe waits patiently for Rachel to spew some other bullshit about her Dad or her living situation or living in a trash pile.

"You're… stubborn," Rachel says. "But you're kind."

"Everyone's like that," Chloe says. "Try again."

"Okay… you're quick to fly off the handle about things that upset you—particularly injustice," Rachel says.

"Again, so is everyone."

"But you're also quick to forgive, especially after you've been slighted," Rachel says.

"Okay… maybe."

"And you're a cynic," Rachel says. "But I know you don't believe what you told Mr. K the other day."

"What, the whole 'twelve-year-olds can't fall in love' thing?" Chloe asks.

"Yeah. You don't think that's true."

"What makes you think that?" Chloe asks.

"Your energy, dingus," Rachel says. "And… the fact that you've been wanting to kiss me all afternoon."

"I'm sorry… what?"

"Or… maybe I'm losing my touch, I don't know."

Chloe lifts one eyelid just enough to see the princess' face. It's tangled up in a nervous sort of frown, almost like a person might look if they were embarrassed, but Chloe knows better than to assume Rachel Amber is even capable of an emotion like that.

"Maybe you are," Chloe says nonchalantly, watching Rachel's face morph into one of worry, biting her lip like she's thinking of something she can say to backtrack.

Then a smile starts to creep its way between her cheeks.

"And maybe you're really bad at cheating," Rachel says.

"Huh?"

"Eyes closed, Price."

"Hey, I wasn't—" Chloe starts.

"You were. Your energy gave it away."

"This game is stupid," Chloe says, taking back her hands.

"Then how come I know about the nightmares?" Rachel asks, eyes still closed.

Chloe frowns at her skeptically.

"What _kind_ of nightmares?" Chloe asks.

"Give me your hands and I'll tell you."

Rachel thinks back to that time when she stumbled upon Chloe in the junkyard, fast asleep in her truck. She was mumbling something… but what was it again?

"Marshmallows," Rachel says.

Chloe takes her hands away from Rachel and scoots back on the bed.

"That's a stupid thing to have a nightmare about," Chloe says.

Rachel opens her eyes and leans on her elbow.

"What's goin' on with you, Chloe?" Rachel asks.

Chloe grabs the sherry off the dresser and goes for another gulp.

"Nothing's goin' on with me. I'm footloose and fancy free over here—I'm done with David, done with Blackhell, done with the stupid Prescotts and Arcadia Bay. I'm ready to get outta this town and not look back. I just need to get my shit together and pick a destination."

"Then why are you biting your nails?"

"Because this prissy little drama queen won't get off my back and thinks I have nightmares about marshmallows," Chloe says.

"Okay," Rachel says, admitting defeat. "Well why don't we listen to some music or something? I bought a CD from that guy at the Firewalk concert…"

"As long as you don't try to psychoanalyze my cosmic response to the undertones of the synth," Chloe says.

"Scout's honor," Rachel promises.

Chloe flops down into the pillows while Rachel digs around on her desk for the CD, finally finding it under her planner and sliding it into her CD player. She isn't sure why, but Chloe is somehow comforted by smelling like Rachel. Maybe James won't know the difference between the girls and Chloe can use it as camouflage to get through dinner tonight. They say dogs don't attack things that smell like their pack. Or is it wolves? Chloe can't remember. She doesn't particularly like either, but she'd much rather be cornered by a dog, that's for sure.

But she's hoping she's never cornered by anything, honestly.

When Rachel comes back over to the bed, she lays closer than Chloe would maybe like… but the problem is that she maybe _does_ like it. Or is it the attention she likes? The undercoat of paint beneath the gold leaf that normally coats Rachel Amber seems pretty plain to Chloe. Knowing that makes Chloe feel a little better about being so human. Even bulletproof princesses have a pulse. And when Rachel snuggles up close to Chloe's left side, there's a moment where Chloe thinks that maybe this _is_ some type of superpower. Maybe caring about someone like Rachel can be powerful enough to keep Chloe from being devoured by the messiness that comes with everything Rachel drags along.

Though if she didn't care about Rachel, she might not be in danger in the first place.

Maybe that's the trade.

Maybe caring is the superpower as much as it's the kryptonite.


	12. Chapter 12

**Really Rather Charming**

Chloe is fast asleep on Rachel's shoulder, and Rachel can hear the sizzling of steaks on the grill below her window. Her Dad had texted her finally to let her know she hadn't snuck Chloe in effectively:

 _Is your friend staying for dinner?_

Rachel had replied with a simple "Yes" and let the facts remain the facts. She also hoped very fervently that her Dad would not reply, and of course he did. He always has something to say:

 _I guess it's steak for three after all._

Rachel wants to roll onto her side, but she doesn't want to wake Chloe. Her whole arm is asleep and her fingers wiggle numbly over the edge of the bed. Is this how it happens? Is this how Chloe falls in love with Rachel? Willfully homeless, a highschool dropout, drunk on sherry, and wearing Rachel's underwear to boot? This can't be it. This can't be the magical moment that everybody dreams about—that Chloe could be dreaming about right now—where the gentle, impeccably lovely girl gets the badass roguish type to melt just a little around the edges. There's no way this is that moment for Chloe and Rachel. Not a chance in hell.

And before Rachel can stop herself, she's stroking Chloe's jaw with her free hand, gently running her thumb along the only soft angle Chloe might have. This is the only part of her she can't chisel away into silver spikes and jagged glass.

Rachel isn't paying attention to the fact that Chloe's eyes have begun to open, dragged from her sleep by an unexpected caress in the gathering dusk. In fact, she's so focused on Chloe's jawline that Rachel doesn't feel Chloe's hand reach up… gently gather the back of Rachel's hair into a loose fist, and pull the princess' lips down onto her own…

Until it's much too late to do anything about it.

" _Fuck_ , Chloe. _Fuck!_ "

Rachel reels away from Chloe on the bed and tries to rewind.

Chloe rubs the sleep from her eyes and looks blearily over at Rachel, bewildered.

"I'm-I'm sorry, I thought you wanted—"

"I don't _know_ what I want!" Rachel says. "I just… I think I just…"

Rachel's forehead creases as she concentrates hard on the past. _Take me there. Take me two minutes back. Just one minute, I don't care. Anything but now_.

"I'm… I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

Stop talking, Rachel. Focus on _then_. She tries to focus on right before this happened and take it back. But time won't budge. Nothing moves. Not even a tingle, just the slow and miraculously frightening trudge forward at a normal pace like time isn't in Rachel's command.

"No, I mean… I did this. I led us here," Rachel says. " _Fuck_. Why did I lead us here?"

"Because you like me," Chloe says. "And you like that I like you."

"I don't want you to be right," Rachel says. "But I'm not stupid, and neither are you."

Stupid, of course not. Helpless, absolutely. Rachel can't seem to furrow her brow hard enough or try to fall back in time any more determinedly.

"We got ourselves into one hell of a mess, didn't we?" Chloe chuckles.

"I don't know."

"You made up that whole superpower thing because you didn't wanna call it something that might tie you to me somehow, right?" Chloe says. "To cover your ass?"

"I don't know that either."

"You don't have to know," Chloe tells her. "It's fine."

Chloe heaves a sigh and flops back down onto the blankets.

"God… why is this so hard?" Rachel asks.

"What, getting what you want?" Chloe asks. "Or… I guess… getting stuck with what you say you _don't_ want?"

"No, of course not," Rachel tells her. "Why is it so hard to… _feel_ this?"

She means to say 'why is it so hard to take back a moment that stripped Rachel Amber, Drama Queen, of all land, power, and title?'... but it won't come out that way. Nothing is going the way it should. Part of her doesn't want to take back the kiss, but the rest of her needs to. This isn't how it should happen. It can't be this way with things so broken and shambled everywhere else. This can't be the time that Rachel admits to herself something she's been taking back and running from since the first moment she met Chloe.

"Because you don't wanna lose your mystery," Chloe shrugs. "That's more than half the appeal—not knowing which Rachel is showing up to the party."

"That's… horrible, Chloe."

"If honest is horrible, so be it," Chloe tells her. "But it's not like I'm not still interested, despite knowing that about you. I clearly can't keep my hands to myself."

"Hands aren't the problem," Rachel says. "It's the mouth that causes most of our problems."

"Mouth, hands… who cares which one? They usually work together when they want something."

"Seriously? You're making jokes?"

"Who's joking?" Chloe asks. "I'm being dead serious."

"Flirting then," Rachel grumbles. "They're kind of the same for you."

"Hey, listen up, Princess—you flirted with _me_. Miss 'transfer your energy' and 'marshmallows' over here. Can't we ever just have a normal fucking conversation? It's always a game with you, or a fight."

"I'm not fighting!"

Chloe laughs. "You hear yourself, right?"

"Okay… maybe I'm fighting. Maybe I don't know what else to do!"

"So stop trying so hard," Chloe says. "It doesn't matter who you are when you're with me. I'll figure it out… and probably still wanna hang out with you at the end of it."

"At the end of figuring me out?"

"I'll _never_ figure you out, Drama Queen," Chloe say. "But… maybe just at the end of figuring out how to look at you without your emotional knee pads and helmet on."

"I hate helmets," Rachel says. "The hair…"

Rachel starts to feel her muscles relax. Maybe… just maybe… she doesn't need to rewind this time. She might actually be better off trusting Chloe to take care of the situation for once.

"Fine," Chloe says. "Without a fence then—or maybe just a fence without a 'No Trespassing' sign on it."

"You never did let a 'Keep Out' keep you down, Chloe," Rachel says.

"And I don't plan to start following directions anytime soon," Chloe tells her. "So if you're done flirting with me and fondling my face, I believe I was promised steak…"

"There was no fondling!"

Chloe reaches out and mockingly strokes Rachel's chin.

"Don't be an asshole, Chloe," Rachel mutters.

"I get it. You're smitten. I'm really rather charming when I wanna be."

"Then what does it say about your charm when I'm only interested in fondling you when you're unconscious?"

"It says more about your deep Necro undertones, if you ask me," Chloe says.

"Why are you such a sick, perverted fuck?" Rachel asks, sliding off the bed.

"Because I hang out with your sick, perverted ass," Chloe tells her.

"You and my ass again…" Rachel says.

Chloe throws her hands up in frustration, but Rachel smiles. Maybe the present isn't so bad after all. Maybe it's exactly where she wants to be for exactly this moment and this moment alone. And here's Chloe, remembering it all, and still wanting to hold her hand down the stairs.


	13. Chapter 13

**Dinner with The Ambers**

At first Chloe wondered what a family meal might taste like after all this time—what sitting between two parents might look like over a salad and a fresh pile of mashed potatoes with chicken or steak or salmon or anything, really… anything but diner bacon and eggs. Maybe there would be a joke or a tell-me-about-your-day moment that might make everyone smile or laugh warmly together like real families do when they're surrounded by the type of overwhelming comfort they can only find with each other. Someone would tell a story, someone would pass the salt, and the dishes would be a continuation of the event—Dad would end up with bubbles on his face, Mom would wipe them off with a tea towel, and Chloe would wrinkle her nose and protest, urging them to "get a room" while secretly appreciating that her parents still found time to be close to each other and make the little things significant. She wishes she'd admitted that more as a kid while it still mattered. She wishes she could bring those moments (among other things) back to life in some way… and that she'd taken better stock of what that felt like while she could still feel it.

It had been quite an event of mental acrobatics getting Chloe to this point in the dinner where knives and forks scraped against the China plates passed down from Rachel's great grandmother. When Rachel and Chloe had set the table, Chloe had asked if these were the right dishes to use for a run-of-the-mill Saturday night. Rachel had laughed and said, "Well we're not supposed to use the good plates unless Grandma's in town." Chloe was forced to think of her own dishes at home: the bubbling plastic plates with knife marks and melted microwave spots that never really got clean in the dishwasher anymore because they were so rough they held every food particle and stain. There wasn't likely to be a matching set of cups, bowls, or plates in the whole house, let alone eight place settings of pristine China with two sets hand-crafted crystal goblets for each seat. But this wasn't "the good China" here. This was the everyday set.

After reconciling the fact that the dishes were worth more than Chloe's entire life and accepting that Mr. Amber had grilled steaks in the three thousand dollar suit he'd put on just to work from home, Chloe was finally able to put a few forkfulls of salad into her mouth and chew.

And that was the only sound around the whole table, which was originally designed for ten (but now only held three). It felt a lot like dinners at home. It occurred to her that, even with the fancy plates and expensive cuts of meat, this family was just as broken and ashamed as Chloe's—money didn't change the inevitable outcome of two people who had promised to be together forever in Arcadia Bay. They were just as sad and hungry and alone as Chloe's own family when they both sat down for dinner with a stranger that only one of them really knew and cared for. A strange bum with no education, no job, and no place else to go. Chloe had to consider for a minute whether she was thinking of herself or of David... and the thought almost made her audibly gag.

Chloe hates to think of the similarities between herself and Dickstache. She decides to think of the steak as his head and cuts it ever more forcefully, so much so that Rachel shoots her a concerned glance. If this were Chloe's house, she might have already been scolded several times by now for a similar rigorous act, but this isn't Chloe's house, and it isn't a talking, or even scolding, kind of dinner. This is the kind of dinner where everyone needs to eat, so they do… and that's it. James doesn't say a word to anyone, not even to ask for the salt. Instead, he scoots his chair back, stands up, and walks to the other side of the table to retrieve it. When he sits back down, he aggressively salts his potatoes and then, having ruined them, doesn't bother taking a bite. Chloe is tempted to laugh at the pile of glistening crystals seated atop the potato pile, but thinks better of it.

She's again reminded of David and his foul mustache. While James doesn't happen to have any facial hair, he does look like the sort of man who would defend people like Dickstache in court and sleep like a baby knowing murderers and pedophiles run free and wild because of his efforts. Chloe finds herself disliking James. Maybe it was the way he turned his nose up at Joyce in Wells' office… or the way he'd set out all the food just slightly out of Chloe's reach on the table so that she'd have to stand up to reach it… or the way he adjusted his place setting before sitting down because Chloe had mixed up the salad fork and the dinner fork (which looked nearly identical, in her defense). She can't decide what it is about Mr. Amber that makes her insides start to boil, but she sees in him a beastly little cheating monster… and that makes her unable to keep her mouth shut.

Chloe decides it's time to say something, knowing full well that her talking and being around Rachel Amber don't seem to mix. She isn't sure why she says what she says (other than the fact that she literally can't stop herself from opening her mouth and doing the worst possible thing for all involved in the already awkward-as-hell dinner), but she realizes as soon as she says it that it's a mistake:

"So being the DA—that's gotta come with some perks, right?"

No one speaks, no one moves. Knives and forks fall silent. The question hangs in the air like a pig in the window of a butcher shop, dripping mysterious liquids down onto the sill. Rachel's eyes are wide as her gaze bores into Chloe, possibly trying to figure out what the hell she's trying to pull. Chloe takes another bite of steak and continues.

"Isn't that kinda like a 'get out of jail free' card or something? Like you're basically untouchable and stuff?" Chloe says.

James clears his throat. "I, uh—"

Rachel looks like she's begging him not to take the bait.

"It has its benefits, yes," James says finally. "But no, it doesn't mean I'm above the law."

"So like… if you did something bad, per se," Chloe goes on, "would you be held responsible in the same way any other person would?"

James nods. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering," Chloe says. "Does that apply on a more… social level too?"

"What do you mean?" James asks.

"Chloe, don't," Rachel says, her face streaked with panic.

"Like if you were to do something that wasn't… strictly against any laws, necessarily… but that was fundamentally wrong on a more personal level. Would you still be accountable in the same way as any other person? Like if you were to… I don't know, say… cheat on your wife, or… lie to someone close to you?"

"I think you're confusing consequence with punishment," James says coldly. "Responsibility is admitting you did something wrong. In a situation like you described, the consequence would be the result of being held accountable, not the same way you would be punished for breaking a law. Consequences don't pick and choose based on outside factors. They are what they are, regardless of the subject."

"I guess I'm just wondering if your line of work keeps you from feeling the traditional levels of guilt for the bullshit you do outside the courtroom," Chloe says, stabbing at her steak pensively.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say this was some sort of thinly veiled attack on my character, Chloe," James says. His tone is flat, betraying nothing. His eyes are cast down to his food, nudging a carrot with the end of his fork.

"But you _do_ know better, don't you, Mr. Amber?" Chloe says. "I would never presume to know what you get up to behind closed doors… or in state parks…"

"If you think so little of me, why are you here? In my home, at my table, with _my daughter_?" James asks. His tone is suddenly sharp, more of a growl than a question.

Chloe tries not to betray her fear. "Because she's my friend and she asked me to dinner."

She doesn't mention that she's been hoping to be a little more than friends, but she wonders what James would say if he knew… and then it occurs to Chloe that he might already know what she wants from his daughter...

"Is that what she told you?" James asks. "Try to dig a little deeper."

"There's nothing to dig," Chloe says. "She asked me to dinner. I said yes. That's what happens when people have a healthy level of communication."

"Why don't you hop down from that soapbox of morality, Chloe—lest we forget that your own moral negligence has begun to jeopardize my daughter's future at Blackwell..." James snipes.

"Dad, stop it," Rachel says meekly. "It was my idea—I told you already."

"See that, Chloe? She's not above lying to her own father. What makes you immune to the treachery of unhealthy communication?"

"Maybe if you weren't a sociopath and set a better example for her, she wouldn't lie to you," Chloe says.

His face shuts off like an old tube television. The static flickers for a minute before it goes completely dark, and Chloe can see the movements of his overpriced Swiss cogs grinding to a halt as James turns to Rachel. "Ray, I think it's time you said goodnight to your friend."

And with that, he backs his chair away from the table, stands, and walks out of the room, the smell of his aftershave receding into the hall after him like an old man's hairline.

Chloe looks over at Rachel whose mouth is set in a hard line, a single tear rolling down her cheek and dripping from her jaw onto her Revenge Banshee shirt. It finally dawns on Chloe that she shouldn't have gone on like she did. Initially she felt the exhilaration of winning an argument… but now that she sees Rachel…

"Why would you do that?" Rachel asks slowly.

"I thought… I thought we were supposed to be angry with him," Chloe says. "He's a lying douchebag hypocrite. You burned his picture, I just assumed..."

"You assumed I'd want you to humiliate him at dinner after he finally agreed to talk to Principal Wells about letting you back in?" Rachel asks. "He wants to help you."

"I… I didn't know that part," Chloe mumbles.

"I was mad. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to be on his side," Rachel says.

"But you do now?" Chloe asks. "What's going on with you? You burn down a tree, talk shit about your Dad, you cover up a nice thing he tried to do for me, and then get mad when I chew him out? What the fuck, Rachel? I wouldn't have done that! I can't read minds!"

Rachel wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her flannel. "I know that. I can't expect you to keep up with this. I don't… I'm not sure what I want right now, okay? It's hard to know what the answer is right now."

"Well it's definitely not this," Chloe says. "I get that it's complicated, and I get that you don't know how to feel, but the least you could do is be honest with me."

"That's really hard," Rachel says, more tears spilling down her cheeks. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

"Yeah, well try me."

"I can't," Rachel says. "I don't know how to talk about it."

Chloe stands up from the table.

"Then I'm going home—wherever the fuck that is. Talk to me when you're done being a selfish, uh... _whateverthefuck_ you're being."

"Chloe, please. Don't go. I don't want you to leave, I just don't—"

"You don't want me to leave, but you won't tell me why I should stay," Chloe mutters. "You're Dad's right about one thing: it's time we said goodnight."

Rachel wants to go after Chloe, but she's frozen in her chair, unable to wipe her eyes, push her chair back, and chase after Chloe knowing full well that something so simple would be all it took to stop Chloe from going. She feels utterly helpless. She can't move, she can't rewind, she can't do anything. All she can do now is listen for the door to slam… wait for this dinner to stop feeling like a nightmare… and watch the steak going cold in front of her, the fat and blood congealing on the plate.


	14. Chapter 14

**Common**

Rachel rolls over in bed. She doesn't know why she lied to Chloe. Why did she tell her James had tried to get her back into Blackwell? Why would she do that? Is she really so desperate to believe something good about James that she's willing to make it up to make him seem like less of a monster? Or does she feel like she's the only one with the right to be angry with him? She really did think Chloe went over the top at dinner… at the time. Now she feels like Chloe held back too much. Why is she so confused? _Does she want Chloe or doesn't she?!_

Maybe that's why she lied: she knew taking James' side would drive Chloe away… and then she wouldn't have to think about the fact that there was a kiss… and Rachel enjoyed it… and wanted to rewind to that moment and have it again. This time, though, she might not pull away so fast and blow everything up into another fight. _That's it._ The fighting gives her time to think. It gives her time to process the things that make her feel uncomfortable and like she's stepped into an unnatural world of someone else's emotions.

She needs the fighting. She needs the drama. She needs Chloe to understand that this isn't what was supposed to happen and that she's sorry this is how she went about asking for space to think… and breathe… and decide what the fuck she's supposed to feel about her family crumpling like a napkin.

There's only one other person who understands what she's feeling as well as Chloe Price might. Rachel pulls out her phone:

 _Are you awake?_

His response is almost instant:

 _Always for you_.

She wishes he hadn't said that, but she's glad to not feel so alone for a minute. She replies:

 _Can I come over?_

She knows he'll say yes, so she doesn't bother waiting for him to text back, she just grabs her coat and makes for the window, her phone buzzing with what she's sure is an "I thought you'd never ask".

She makes it as far as the end of the street before she realizes she can smell the fire getting closer—like actually _smell_ it. Bits of ash filter down like snowflakes in the glow of a nearby streetlamp and Rachel can feel the heat coming off the orange glow in the distance. Maybe she's imagining that part. It could be the idea of the fire making her sweat… or it could be guilt. The fact that she can't tell makes her walk a little more quickly down the road and into the shadows where she hopes the neighbors won't see her and report her activity to James.

The walk feels longer than she remembers it being… most likely because there's something heavier on her mind than usual and it's weighing her down to a slow trudge. There's no spring to Rachel's step as she climbs up the railing on the back deck and hoists herself onto the roof. She creeps quietly along the shingles, past the upstairs family room where the TV is glowing brightly with some recorded hockey game, and over to a window covered by a blackout curtain. She taps gently on the glass.

Her phone buzzes. At first she thinks it's him saying "you could've come through the front" like an asshole… but when she pulls out her phone and flips it open, she sees the "UNAVAILABLE" number's text in all caps:

 _DARKROOM_.

She rolls her eyes and stuffs the phone back into her pocket. Whatever _that's_ supposed to mean.

The curtain crumples to the side and the window is slid open for her.

"Glad you made it in one piece," he says.

Rachel crouches down and slips herself through the open window. He was kind enough to put the step ladder out for her, which makes her feel a sharp pang of guilt. It's not because she likes being cared for—that's not something to feel guilty about. It's the fact that Chloe would've done something like that, too… just like he did. Anything to make the princess comfortable. Anything to get her to come over again.

She looks him up and down. "You look tired," she tells him, and truthfully he does. His button-down shirt is wrinkled, his sleeves rolled unevenly to the elbow, his hair falling down into his eyes. She's seen him look worse, but not lately.

"Yeah, well… things've been hard since I fucked up The Tempest," he admits, running his hands over the front of his shirt to flatten it out. It doesn't work.

"Shit," Rachel mumbles. "Nathan, I'm sorry… I should've come sooner."

He smiles a sad sort of smile. "It's fine," he says gently. "You're here now."

"It's good to see you," she tells him.

He flops down in his computer chair and gestures for her to sit on the bed.

"But… not because of me," he says, trying not to let the disappointment show.

"I'm… no, not because of you."

"Your Mom's still gone?" he asks.

"She hasn't even called," Rachel tells him. "And I feel horrible about it. I don't really even miss her. I just miss… how she balanced my Dad. I miss the effect of her."

"That's hard," Nathan says. "It's always easier to know what it is you love about someone once you don't have it anymore."

"It makes me feel like it's my fault somehow," Rachel admits.

"Did you make your Dad cheat on her?" Nathan asks.

"No, but—"

"And did you tell her he cheated?" he asks.

"No."

"Do you feel like you should have?"

"Sometimes," she says. "When I think about it, all I really did was help him do it. I knew he was up to something and I covered it up."

"You wanted to spare her."

"No, I didn't," Rachel says. "I wanted to catch him."

"To make him come clean?"

"I think I just wanted…" Rachel's eyes start to burn with tears. "He makes me feel so… _stupid_. And powerless. I think I just… I wanted him to be doing something wrong so I could—"

"Rachel, we've talked about this kinda thing," Nathan says. "You're not a bad person for recognizing injustice. You're not evil because you seize opportunities to gain power or control."

"But it sounds bad when I say it," she tells him. "And it feels bad knowing I didn't stop my Mom from walking out on us."

"You couldn't have done anything to stop her," Nathan says. "You can't even know for sure how long she's been aware of the affair. It's _his_ fault she left. He's a fucking asshole. You didn't do anything."

Rachel thinks of Chloe… because that's who she _always_ thinks of lately. But she thinks of Chloe this time because she knows there's no way in hell Chloe Price would be crying in Nathan Prescott's bedroom right now because she didn't do enough to get what she wanted. Chloe Price would've fought for it, and probably gone down in flames spectacularly. But she would've _done_ something. She would've admitted she cared, she would've used her superpower and she would've ripped the power right out of the hands of fate and taken what she wanted—whatever it was—and she would've gone down in a blaze of glory fighting for what she believed in.

But what does _Rachel_ believe in?

"That's why I feel like this, though," she says. "I didn't _do_ anything. And I should've. I wish I was the type of person who wants good things for other people, regardless of how hard that makes things for me. I wish I was the type of person who _missed_ people and _cared_ about things and could admit when I think I want someone—thing. When I want something."

"Well what is it you want?" he asks, and Rachel could swear there's a glint of some distant hope in his eyes.

"I wanna have a genuine thought," Rachel says, "Just _one_ … where I'm honest with myself and not trying to choreograph a situation in my favor. I wanna fail miserably at something and be okay with the fact that I can't fix it. I wanna be okay with things happening badly the first time, and then I wanna be able to trust that other people have the ability to make it better sometimes."

The hope slides off his face and Nathan looks cold and distant. "Don't you think you're asking a lot of yourself?"

"Yeah," says Rachel. "Is that bad?"

"I guess not," Nathan says. "I just hate to think you're the type of person to let your guard down without a fight. Trust is a dangerous thing."

"You have every reason to think so," Rachel says. "But don't you think it might be nice to not have to… I don't know… curate things so carefully? Don't you wanna let go sometimes?"

"I've been wanting to let go since the minute I realized I was holding on," Nathan says darkly.

"I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't, Rachel. But sometimes we have to see the darkness in ourselves before we can see it in others."

He reaches over to the Nikon on his desk and picks it up absentmindedly.

"You know why I take pictures, don't you?" he asks.

His tone is abnormally far-off and Rachel swallows hard. She's not afraid he'll hurt her—she knows better. She's afraid he might hurt himself.

"Y-you said they help you see the edges of… something about… the limitations—"

"The limitations of life," he says. "The end of our control over what is and what isn't. If I don't have the power to see that… I might as well not be here."

His finger rests on the shutter release for a long time, staring down at the display screen like it has the answer to a question Rachel didn't hear him ask.

"You know I want you to be here, though… right?" Rachel asks.

He sniffs. "Yeah, Rachel," he says. "I know."

"I'm-I'm sorry about what happened in the play. We can run lines more next time."

"If I ever get cast again," he mutters.

"Mr. K knows you're a good actor," she tells him. "What happened up there used to happen to me too."

"Not that I ever saw," Nathan says, eyes transfixed on his camera.

"You didn't know me before I came to Blackwell," she says. "In California I was a total mess. I'd nail the rehearsals and flub the performances every time, without fail. Until finally… my drama teacher told me the truth."

"What truth?"

"That what happens on the stage doesn't matter. None of it matters. The only thing that's important is what happens in _you_. You can know all the lines and all the steps and all the cues, but if you're not walking out onto the stage feeling like you _are_ the character, you've already flubbed the scene."

"I guess I just… got a little off track after my Dad—"

"I know," Rachel says. "It's hard when people don't get why you love to escape sometimes."

"You and I have always had that problem in common," Nathan sighs.

"Knowing that has gotten me through a lot," Rachel tells him. "It's hard to feel alone with you around."

"I… I feel the same way," Nathan says, looking up from his camera.

"Maybe that's why we cling to certain people," she says. "They make us feel like it's okay to escape."

"I… yeah, totally."

Rachel sighs and leans back into the wall behind Nathan's bed. "I should go," she says. "It's really late."

"But—wait. One for the road?" he asks, holding up his camera.

"Why not," she says, standing up and crossing the room to crouch next to his chair.

He holds the camera at arm's length and leans into Rachel, telling her that if she says "cheese" he'll have to kill her.

She laughs and says it anyway just as Nathan presses down to release the shutter.

When Rachel makes her way up the step ladder and out onto the roof, Nathan looks sad to see her go.

"Thanks for listening to my bullshit sobstory," she tells him. "You're a real peach."

"Thanks for telling me your bullshit sobstory," he says. "You're a doll."

She rolls her eyes and heads out into the night, keeping to the shadows and hoping the ashes falling from the sky are a figment of her imagination. Maybe she'll visit Chloe in the morning. After all, she did say "Let me know when that's over". The bullshit. The confusion. The selfishness. The fight. Rachel makes the decision that it _has_ to be over. She already let Chloe walk out of the house. Now it's time to keep Chloe Price from walking out of Rachel's life. Possibly for good. And maybe it's also time Chloe knew about the mysterious alleged battery in the white truck in the junkyard.


	15. Chapter 15

**All The World's A Stage**

Chloe kicks a stray leaf off the stage that had been erected in the center of the Blackwell quad. The way it crunches against her skin makes her hair stand on end, the sharp, crisp sensation of it prickling on the bottom of her bare foot.

Wait…

A bare foot?

She looks down to find her legs wrapped in dark tights and her shoes nowhere to be seen. Did she leave home without her shoes?

She hears a cough to her right and her head snaps towards the sound, only to whip back immediately, having been blinded by an incredibly white light. What the—?

"You remember the line, don't you, sweetheart?" comes a voice from center stage.

Chloe turns to look, finding only a circle of chairs all facing in towards the center.

"Dad?" she calls out.

"Yep, I'm coming," William's voice comes from the chairs, but she can't seem to find his face. "Why don't you go ahead and start the car, kiddo? I'll be out in a second."

Chloe turns back towards the bright lights. A little ways to their left she can make out the shadow of a crowd. Is this… The Tempest? Where are the set pieces? Why is there just a circle of four chairs in the center of the stage? Well… more like a square, but—

"I can't… I don't… the car isn't here, Dad," Chloe says, trying to peer past the tree lights to hopefully find a familiar face in the crowd. They're only shadows, but maybe one of them is William…

"That's not how improv works, honey," William's voice replies, this time a whisper on the back of her neck.

She shivers.

"I-Improv?" she asks, but William's voice doesn't come again to reassure her.

She makes her way over to the chairs. Is this… part of the show? She must've missed that entire section of the script where Ariel does… y'know… that thing with the chairs. Maybe there's something she's supposed to do with the circle? It's certainly not a car, but…

She grabs one chair and cautiously slides it around to face the audience. Another cough sounds from the shadows, though it could quite possibly have been a sneeze, and then silence. She feels what she's doing is right… but maybe this isn't what they want.

She slides the second chair into position, then the third… and finally the fourth. When the car is assembled, the crowd starts to clap slowly. She turns to them, holding her hand above her eyes to get a better view, but there's nothing but blobby shapes and darkness. The cheering grows louder and someone stands to whistle (though she can't see who).

A revving sound comes from behind her and when she turns to look, William is sitting in the "driver's seat" with his hands on an invisible steering wheel.

"Get in," he whispers to her, and she obliges by sitting down in the chair next to his.

The applause stops dead.

"How did she do that?" someone calls from the crowd.

Silence.

"Chloe, that's not how a car works. You have to act like it's really there," William whispers. "Just… get out and try again."

"Are you serious?" she asks, suddenly angry.

"You're already wearing the feathers… just play the part, sweetheart."

Chloe reaches up and feels the headdress from Ariel's costume on her head. What a nightmare of an outfit… and in front of all these people, too. Jesus, this is humiliating.

She stands up from the chair, takes a step back, and mimes opening the car door to get into the vehicle.

The crowd erupts into cheers.

William nods approvingly as she buckles her seatbelt, and when the crowd quiets down, he asks, "Do you remember your line?"

Chloe looks out in the direction of the crowd and swallows hard. "I… I don't have—"

"You're supposed to ask me what I'm doing here," William says.

"What _are_ you doing here?" Chloe asks. "This is The Tempest."

"Sorry, sweetheart," William says. "Have I gotten in your way again?"

"No," Chloe admits. "I guess I was just thinking that… the last time I was here, I was with Rachel Amber."

An "ooooh!" ripples through the crowd.

"You miss her, don't you," William says.

"No," Chloe mutters. "Maybe. I don't know—I hope not."

"For a minute there I thought you'd given up on her," William says.

"For a minute, so did I. Her Dad tried to help me, and then I tore him a new one because I thought he was a monster. She _said_ he was a monster. Which means she lied to me—again," Chloe says. "I don't wanna be around someone who doesn't get reality."

"When did you become so fixated on the truth?" William laughs.

The crowd joins in, guffawing from the darkness.

"When it started mattering to her," Chloe says. "When she started asking me things that made me question what was true. _She did this to me_ , and now I can't stop thinking about how stupid I must be to let the drama queen pull one over on me like that."

"Y'know, Chloe… not everyone's perfect," William tells her. "And it seems like you expect a lot from Ms. Rachel Amber."

"I expect her to tell me the truth every once in a while—but she can't even be honest about what she's feeling. We always end up fighting."

"And _you_ always end up leaving," William says. "Does that have something to do with your fear of being left?"

The crowd chimes in: _AWWWWWW!_

"I'm not afraid of being left…" Chloe says.

"Then why did it hurt you so much when she stormed off in the junkyard that first time? How come you've been the only one walking away after that?"

"Because she's wrong—and she's the one who—"

"Think about it, Chloe. It's nobody's fault, but maybe you should think about how your fears are hurting _her_ too," William says. "Don't you think it hurts her just as much every time you hightail it back to the trash pile?"

"Maybe I wanna hurt her because she hurt _me_ ," Chloe mutters.

"Maybe so."

"Maybe I feel abandoned by the fact that she gets to live all these lives, have all these secrets… hold all this power over me… and I just sit in a junkyard all day waiting for the princess to notice me, or pay me a fucking visit…"

 _AWWWWWW!_

"It's hard sometimes to admit that the people we love might not love us nearly as much—or at all," William says, putting on his invisible turn signal and merging into the next lane.

Chloe feels the stage rock under her as he does it, swaying with the motion of the car.

"I've known that from the beginning," Chloe mutters.

"You wouldn't be this devastated if you'd understood what it meant, though."

"No, I guess not."

Chloe hears a low honking blaring in the distance—two short blasts.

"Ah… looks like that's my cue," William says.

The crowd cheers wildly and William smiles gratefully to them, hands still holding the invisible steering wheel.

"Dad, no…"

"It's okay, sweetheart. It's just a play—it's just a dream"

The horn blares again and the crowd goes mad, standing from their seats, cheering, whistling, stomping their feet against the grass.

"You have to get out, honey," William says. "Your mark is all the way over there."

"But I don't want to. If I get out, you'll—"

"Now, now," William chuckles sadly. "There's no need for that. It's a show, Chloe. Just a dream about a show."

"Dad…"

"She really is a lovely girl, you know," William says. "Just like those lights. Just like what they represent."

Chloe unbuckles her "seatbelt", opens the "car door", and slams it shut behind her as she goes to stand on a little blue X marked in tape on the stage.

"What do they represent?" Chloe asks.

One long, piercing horn blast explodes amongst the applause and an enormous eighteen-wheeler careens across the stage, the tires screeching, rubber and metal shards flying in all directions. Smoke billows from the spot where William sat, and fire licks the remains of his chair.

Chloe screams for him, tears streaking the makeup down her face: "DAD!"

But it's far too late. She drops to her knees, cheeks burning in the heat from the tree lights, ears ringing and throbbing from the final blast of the truck horn bubbling out of the darkness. She screams for William again, but she's not sure that any sound comes out.

The crowd starts chanting her name:

 _Chloe! Chloe! Chloe! Chloe!_

And she's shaken awake by a cold and urgent hand.


	16. Chapter 16

**Trash Talk**

The feeling of it is almost unreal as Chloe is jolted awake, tears welling in her eyes from her nightmare. Why does William always die? Her dreams can't even give her the satisfaction of a father figure—he always goes away and strands her in the middle of a mess. Just like real life, but again and again, sharp and almost as fresh as the day it happened.

A voice hisses close to her ear as she's shaken hard by a set of freezing cold hands: "What the _fuck_ Chloe?! What are you _doing_ here?!"

She sits up quickly and smacks her head directly into Frank Bowers' forehead. He crumples away in pain and Chloe cries out, clutching her face.

"Frank?!"

"Oh no, no, no," Frank grunts. "You don't get to be shocked by my being here—this is private property, y'little freeloadin' shitface."

She squints at him through one eye, trying to get the room to focus. He's crouched by the wooden spool "coffee table", one hand pressed to his head, the other flat on the floor keeping his balance.

"It's a junkyard, asswipe. Nobody comes here," Chloe mutters.

"Well I do—y'hear that? _Me._ This is _my_ spot," Frank says.

"A junkheap with a pile of cinder blocks is 'your spot'?" Chloe huffs.

"Hey _SHUT UP_ , Price," he says, finally able to get to his feet. He grabs her by the collar of her shirt and shoves her off the couch. "Beat it, huh? Or I'll tell the boss you're campin' out on his property."

Chloe swipes at Frank's knees from the ground, but doesn't manage to topple him. Instead he grabs her under the arms and drops her stomach to the dirt.

" _STOP IT, CHLOE!_ " he shouts. "I don't wanna hurt you, but if you keep pushin' your luck, I'm gonna bust your ass."

Chloe struggles against Frank's grip, kicking and wriggling to free herself. He's stronger than he looks and he holds her firmly with his knee between her shoulder blades.

"How about you get the fuck off me, you sack of dick?!" Chloe spits, but Frank has her pinned and doesn't budge.

"How bout you tell me how you even got here?" Frank says.

"I walked, jackass!"

"Don't be a smart alec! I wanna know how you found the shack."

"My friend found it," she mutters into the floor.

"Speak up, moron!"

" _MY FRIEND_."

"Which friend?" Frank asks.

"Let me go!"

"Not until you tell me which friend."

Chloe struggles to free herself all the more fervently.

"Chloe! Enough! Just tell me which friend and I'll let you go!"

"Rachel, you fuck-clown!"

Frank picks up his knee and Chloe goes scrambling into a corner, unable to pull herself up to her feet just yet, but determined not to be in grabbing distance of that filthy scavenger.

"Rachel?" Frank says quietly, a look of deep concern eclipsing his scruffy features.

Chloe pants heavily from the other side of the room, her eyes darting between the door and the window trying to figure out which one is a more viable exit.

"Rachel Amber?" Frank asks, brushing the dirt off his hands and slowly standing upright.

Chloe doesn't respond. Instead she presses her back against the wall and starts to slide up to her feet... hoping Frank will be too distracted (or too stupid) to notice.

He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "How do you know Rachel?" Frank asks.

She stops halfway through her ascent.

"I didn't say it was Rachel Amber," Chloe tells him.

"Do I look stupid to you?"

"Yes."

"Shut the fuck up, Price. I'm not stupid," Frank says.

"You asked," Chloe mutters.

"Well now I'm asking how you know Rachel Amber," Franks tells her. "Start talkin'."

"We go to school together—went. Went to school…"

"What, did you get kicked out or something?" Frank chuckles.

"Suspended, fuckface. I'm going back," Chloe says. "Probably."

"How does a screw-up like you manage to hang out with an honor student?" Frank asks.

"How do you know she's an honor student?"

"I'm asking the questions here, remember?" Frank says. "Why don't you cut the act and tell me somethin' before I hurt you."

"We did the play together," Chloe says.

"Bullshit, Price. You act?"

"My life is an act. I figured a play wouldn't be much of a challenge."

"You sound like that dickhead, Nathan Prescott," Frank mutters.

"You know Nathan?"

"Again, none of your business," Frank says.

"And why is Rachel Amber your business?"

"Because I'm asking about her," Frank tells Chloe. "That makes her my business."

"Okay, well why does it matter that she's the one who found this shitpile?"

"Because it's not her shitpile," Frank says. "And she's got no business telling other people it's here."

"It's not exactly hidden…"

"Well this isn't exactly a playground, now is it."

"Depends on your definition…" Chloe says.

"Well by _my_ definition, it ain't. And mine's the only one we need to worry about right now."

"Look, I'll leave your crummy trash stash, okay? I was just here to blow off some steam," Chloe says.

"Bullshit," Frank says.

"I'm serious. I got in a fight with my Mom and I needed someplace to lay low for a couple hours."

"Then why do you have a duffel bag, idiot?"

"That's not mine," Chloe says. "I've never owned anything pastel in my life."

Frank goes over to investigate Rachel's stash of provisions for Chloe and rifles through the contents of the clothing. He pulls out a shirt with a flaming skull on it and laughs.

"This must be princess," he says.

"Don't call her that, you weird pervert."

"Hey, it's not like that, okay?" Frank says, suddenly heated. "Don't make it fucking gross. I look out for her—that's all."

"So you know her?" Chloe asks. "You're like her dealer or something?"

"Watch it, Price. You know too much already."

"So what's the harm in telling me the rest?"

"Yeah right," Frank laughs. "That jedi mindtrick bullshit might work on some people, but I don't play games with children."

"Really? Cuz it seems like you play games with Rachel…"

Frank points at Chloe threateningly. "Take it back, Price!"

"Woah, calm down, beefcake. I'm just saying you recognize her clothes and take an interest in her studies. It seems fair to say that you're looking an awful lot like an after school special here."

"It's not _like_ that!" Frank says through his teeth, spit flying as his face gets redder and redder.

"Okay, whatever. I'm just saying what it _looks_ like."

To be honest, it sort of _does_ look like that to Chloe. Something about that really genuinely bothers her, but she can't let Frank know that. There's something unsettling about the grodiness of Frank's fingernails that make Chloe distrust him so much with Rachel. A hand like that shouldn't be touching something so—

"Well you're a sick, twisted little creep, Chloe Price. You make everything disgusting," Frank snarls.

"Great… so I'll just get my disgusting self outta your trash house, and we're even, okay? I won't tell Rachel you're a kiddie fiddler, and you won't bash my head in again with your neanderthal unibrow."

"Oh no you don't," Frank says. "I know you. You can't keep a secret to save your life."

"Sure I can," she says. She honestly doesn't know if she's telling the truth or not. Her knees are getting tired from the half-crouch against the wall and she's getting ready to just make a run for it. She's figured out that if she can ram her knee into just the right fleshy bits… maybe… just maybe… she can make a run for it and get out of the junkyard before he mauls her like a bear with a blueberry.

"You know too much," Frank says.

"Because you _talk_ too much…"

 _Chloe, shut up. Don't make this worse. He literally wants to hurt you_ , she thinks to herself. _Don't give him an excuse_. But she can't help it. She's literally programmed to self-destruct and will seemingly stop at nothing to instigate her own demise.

"Well what are we gonna do about it then?" Frank says.

"How 'bout you give me some hush money and we'll call it square?" Chloe says.

"Yeah right," Frank laughs. "You still owe me two hundred bucks and a new doormat, dumbass."

"I think it's gonna take more than money to keep me quiet anyway," Chloe tells him.

"You don't get to blackmail me, idiot. I'm letting you live. That's your hush money."

"Well why don't I just go ahead and tell your little 'princess' what a piece of shit you really are for threatening me in the first place?" Chloe says.

His expression flashes for a second to one of fear, but it doesn't last long. His scowl returns in no time and he sucks his teeth.

"What makes you think she's got any kind of control over me?"

"She's got control over just about everybody," Chloe sighs.

"Well not me," Frank says.

"So prove it. Let me go on _your_ terms," Chloe says.

"And give you what you want?" Frank asks.

"Or you can give me the satisfaction of watching Rachel Amber tear you a new one because you hurt her favorite indentured servant," Chloe says smugly.

"You've got no idea what you're talking about, Price."

"Maybe not," Chloe say. "But won't it be fun to find out if I'm right?"

Frank looks torn for a minute. His face is all screwed up like he's thinking his first ever thought and his mouth is twisted down into a constipated-looking frown of concentration.

"You're more trouble than you're worth, y'know that, Chloe?" Frank mutters finally. "Now beat it before I beat _you_."

"I thought I knew too much…" Chloe says. "We just had this conversation like a second ago…"

 _Fuck, Chloe._ _SHUT UP!_

"Well we're done having it—for now. I need some time to think about what I want. And when the time's right, I'll give you a call. Until then, get the fuck off this property."

He really is as stupid as he looks. Chloe scoots her way along the wall, hoping Frank won't change his mind, and Frank eyes her with amusement.

"I said go, dumbass. Do I need to count to three?" Frank says.

She steps away from the wall and quickly makes her way for the door, giving Frank as wide a birth as she can in the tight quarters. Once through the door, she tips a fresh set of middle fingers back to Frank and then bolts for the fence.

Frank looks irritated (but smug) as Chloe flees the scene, and it's not exactly clear to her whether or not she ended up on the right side of that scenario. She's probably talked her way out of more complicated jams than that one, but… her mouth has also gotten her into worse trouble than she's ever had with Frank, and that's putting it lightly. Frank isn't actually dangerous—she's always known that. It's the _real_ owner of that junkyard that Chloe has to worry about. She doesn't know his name, she probably hasn't seen his face… but she's a little bit afraid of him anyway, because chances are he's missing exactly that part of his brain that makes Frank such a wuss when it comes to teenage delinquents. This guy is probably missing just specifically the shred of human decency that keeps a human dustbin like Frank from murdering a fifteen-year-old in her sleep, rather than waking her up and telling her to leave.

* * *

When Rachel gets to the junkyard, she searches for a long time before realizing Chloe isn't there. She looks in every car she can find, under every pile of windswept fabric and discarded lawn chair—she even climbs onto the top of the run-down school bus to get a good look over that old boat with the chunk missing from the hull. But no Chloe. The hood of the old truck is propped open with a scrap of pipe like somebody was working on it, but the corrosion on the battery suggests it's not in any state to be driven, meaning Chloe didn't escape. Or if she did, she found another way to do it.

Rachel decides to text Victoria:

 _I need a favor, Vic._

Victoria responds haughtily:

 _What a shame._

Rachel scowls down at her phone. She must still think it was Rachel who laced that fucking tea. Maybe someone else in The Vortex Club will be able to help. She texts Dana next:

 _Have you heard anything from Chloe Price? She has my textbook for Chem and I need it for the exam!_

Dana sends back a worried emoji and a rather unsettling message:

 _DDDD: Um… didn't she get expelled?! xoxo bitch deserves it if she's stealin_

Wow… Chloe is really not well-liked. Okay… maybe a different approach. She texts Nathan:

 _Do you have time for a game?_

Nathan replies immediately:

 _Always for you_

Rachel hates that he said it (and always says it), but tries to ignore what it means.

 _How do you get in touch with someone who doesn't want to be found?_

Nathan types for a long time, but when he finally replies, his answer is shorter than Rachel had hoped:

 _You follow their spiral_

Spiral? What kind of spiral? Before she can ask, he sends another message:

 _Go where their crazy might take them_

Rachel thanks him, but isn't quite sure what that means she ought to do. Chloe's crazy is usually a misguided sulk somewhere private. That could be anywhere. She can quickly rule out Chloe's home, and it's unlikely she went to Blackwell. What might someone like Chloe do if she started slipping down the rabbit hole of anger? Maybe sadness—who knows? More likely frustration, but—

Wait a second.

Chloe is an emotionally volatile person. How would a person like Chloe Price mellow out? Rachel could squeeze Nathan in a hug until he popped. She's got it! Or… she _hopes_ she's got it. Maybe not, but it's a start. She cringes a bit at the thought of what this means, but she tries to separate herself from the reality of it. She's doing this for Chloe, just like always. She's doing this for Chloe.

* * *

Her fist raps hard against the RV door in quick succession, wanting to leave no doubt about whether or not she knocked before entering. Before anyone can answer the door, Rachel barges into the motorhome and is greeted by a bouncy, yipping Pompidou. She can't help but smile as she picks him up and tucks him under her arm, carrying him like a purse as he tries to lick at her face and wriggles to be pet.

"Frank?" she calls towards the cockpit of the camper. "It's me…"

She hears a crashing from the bedroom end of the RV and can't help but roll her eyes.

"What the hell are you doing back there?" she says, heading for the wooden-laminate door. She slides it out of the way with her free hand, adjusting Pompidou under her arm as he wiggles for attention.

Frank is in the middle of screwing some kind of grate back into the wall when Rachel finds him, and he looks like he's up to something.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Damn place just keeps falling apart," he says, out of breath.

"Have you been running or something? You're all… sweaty, and…"

"How 'bout you mind your business?" he mutters.

Rachel raises her eyebrows and puts her free hand on her hip.

Frank backpedals. "Uh… I was just… I tried doing some of those yoga poses you told me about—that shit's embarrassing. And then I kicked this grate in, and—well, y'know."

"Why does it sound like I should be suspicious?" Rachel asks, narrowing her eyes.

"C'mon, dollface. You don't wanna know what I been up to in here on my own, do ya?"

Rachel grimaces. "No, not really."

Pompidou yipps to be set free and Rachel sets him on the bed. Then he yipps to be picked back up. Frank digs in his pocket and pulls out a treat, which Pompidou quickly inhales and then, satisfied, bounces away.

"Not that I don't enjoy the company, darlin', but… I got a feeling that mafia stare didn't come to see _me_ ," Frank says.

"Not that it's any of your business," Rachel says, "but I'm looking for someone."

"You're makin' it my business, it sounds like."

"Okay, if you wanna put it that way, fine. I'm looking for Chloe Price, and I don't wanna talk about why."

"But you know I'm gonna ask if you want me to help you," Frank says.

"And you know I'm gonna thank you anyway, but I think I'll have a look on my own."

"If looking on your own was what it took, you'd have found her by now, don't ya think?" Frank says.

"I knew coming here was a mistake," Rachel sighs, turning on her heel and heading back through the RV towards the door. She walks just slow enough for Frank to stop her before she gets there.

"Alright, alright, tough guy. Sorry, it's been a long day. I didn't mean anything by it," Frank says gently.

"No, really. Thanks for your time, but I've got somewhere I need to be," Rachel says.

"Rachel—seriously? C'mon, I'm just a little—I'm… I'm not good today. Ask me again, I'll do better this time."

"I don't wanna put you through any trouble if you're having a hard time," Rachel tells him. "It wouldn't be fair to you."

"Fair is a weather condition, dollface. C'mon. I'll help ya look for the little—" Frank stops himself. "Where's the last place you saw her?"

"I was gonna ask you the same question," Rachel says.

"Last time I saw her, she was with you, actually," Frank tells her. "At the Mill."

"You haven't dealt her anything since then?" Rachel asks.

"No," Frank says. "You said not to. The little fucker still owes me three hundred bucks, by the way."

"Really?" Rachel says, raising an eyebrow.

"Y-yeah… I can show you the book if you don't trust me," Frank says.

She gives him a look like she knows he's lying, but digs into her back pocket anyway.

"No, no. I know you wouldn't lie to me if you wanted our arrangement to continue," she says.

When she hands him the money, he groans and hands back some of it. "Fucking _kids_ , man…"

"Well I guess if you haven't seen her, you really _can't_ help me after all," Rachel says. "Which is a shame…"

She reaches for the handle on the door.

"Okay, wait… just… hang on a second, wouldya?" he says.

Rachel pauses just long enough to give him a hopeful look… one that applauds his honesty while simultaneously admonishing his initial withholding.

"Goddamn it," he sighs. "I was in the junkyard earlier—she was in our spot, Rach… I didn't know what to do."

"So what _did_ you do?" Rachel asks.

"I wanted to protect you—I kicked that bitch to the curb. Told her to get the fuck outta there before Damon saw."

"Why would you do that?" Rachel says, suddenly fierce.

Frank shrinks back. "What?" he says. "I thought… I just—"

"I told her she could stay there for a while," Rachel says. "Just until things settle for her at home."

"So you guys are friends now? I thought she was just part of the arrangement."

"Not exactly," Rachel says.

"You've actually spoken to her then?" Frank asks.

"As is evidenced by the Mill… and the fact that I told her she could stay in the junkyard," Rachel affirms coldly.

"Listen, Rach… I'm sorry. Ya gotta tell me this shit if you want me to keep up. I need to know what you're doing if you want me to help you. You owe me that much."

"I don't owe you anything, Frank. Let's not forget your little—"

"I'm not," he says quickly. "I just don't wanna see you fall in with the wrong crowd, dollface. And that Chloe Price… she's the wrong crowd."

"Thank you, Frank. But I think I'm capable of choosing my own friends," Rachel says.

"So you _are_ friends…"

"Not… exactly."

"Then what?"

"Not that it's any of your business," Rachel says, "but Chloe and I have… an arrangement."

"Of course you do."

"And you're going to tell me which direction she went if you want to continue _our_ arrangement," Rachel says.

"The little shit looked like she was headed West," Frank says.

"What's west?"

"Hell if I know," Frank says. "That fire, if you ask me. But I'm sure there's plenty of stuff between here and there."

Rachel's heart skips a beat.

The fire.

What on earth would Chloe be doing by heading there?

She pushes open the door and climbs down the steps to the pavement.

"You be careful out there, dollface," Frank says. "Wouldn't want you getting toasted up like a hot dog, now would we."

Rachel turns and looks the dealer up and down.

"I've always been more of a marshmallow girl myself," she says.

And with that, Rachel makes her way in the direction of the one thing she fears more than any earthly (or otherworldly) forces combined.


	17. Chapter 17

**All The Devils**

Rachel rubs her eyes. Are they tears from the sadness, or tears from the thickening air billowing out from the source of the fire? She can't tell, and that's probably what's making it worse. Her phone is buzzing off the hook in her pocket, but she ignores the texts from the Unknown number. She doesn't _want_ to be stopped right now. She has to keep going if she wants to find Chloe. And what kind of coward texts a person nonstop for an entire weekend but refuses to explain who they are or what they want? Rachel is embarrassed to have ever assumed it might've been Nathan playing a practical joke. She knows he wouldn't do that. Maybe he might do it to Chloe Price… but not to _Rachel_. She feels the guilt returning when she thinks about how she completely ignored him after The Tempest—after he flubbed his scene and left the stage in tears. Rachel can't remember the last time she saw Nathan cry before that horrible display. It might've been when his dog died… but then again, he might've just taken a picture and called it a day. She supposes that's just how some people deal with loss—especially people like Nathan who lose an awful lot of things. Remembering it dead (especially if it was beloved) is better than no memory of it at all. He says photography reminds him of his humanity, but Rachel is positive that's not true. She thinks it's his way of holding on. Maybe that's why he's always wanting to photograph her…

She realizes she's always leaving him.

As Rachel ploughs through the forest towards the horizon where the sun will eventually set (behind the glowing blaze), she tries to keep herself focused on the task at hand: find Chloe Price. Well… the real task is hoping Frank wasn't lying about which direction Chloe was heading after she left the junkyard. That's a whole trust exercise in and of itself.

She wishes she could rewind.

She's tired of having to drag through the day like some sort of… _normal_ person. It's exhausting having to think so much about what she's saying and doing. Normally when she grills Frank she's able to rewind it right back and let him forget he ever unraveled a lie (or betrayed a secret). His ego is more fragile than a basil leaf, and can be bruised with the lightest pressure from a wooden spoon… or in this case the slightest pressure from the drama queen. She likes to think she's normally more powerful than a wooden spoon, but being unable to use her rewind has made her feel a lot more… fleshy. She's noticing more and more the effects of the human condition, and the dangers surrounding her usual "arrangements".

Not that anyone would ever hurt Rachel. She knows better. No one would dare touch her at this point. Frank is softer than an unbaked crescent roll, and even his boss Damon knows better than to lay a finger on little miss "dollface". She's had to use her rewind on him just about every time they've met, and usually to undo a conversation that didn't have an Exit sign at the other end. Chloe sometimes makes Rachel feel that way, too: like there's no exit sign. Like there's nothing at the bottom of the barrel, just water for miles and miles. The, uh… the water being the guilt she feels, of course… and the barrel… she supposes that's every conversation they've ever had.

 _Whatever, Rachel_ , she thinks to herself, _task at hand._

Find Chloe Price.

* * *

"Where are you going, sweetheart?"

"Nowhere," Chloe says. "Anywhere. I don't know."

Her shoes dig into the pine needles and rotting leaves mingling with the dry Arcadia Bay dirt. She's not moving too quickly, but she's getting wherever she's going with purpose, her fists balled up and her jaw set in a hard line.

William's smile is warm, but somehow sad. He peers out from behind a tree up ahead and Chloe stops to lean up against its bark.

"You know the fire's up this way," William says.

"I know."

"What are you hoping to find?" he asks.

She slides down the tree until she's sitting on a clump of roots. "I'm not sure."

William heaves a sigh. "You want her to come find you," he says.

"No, I don't."

"Okay, then," William says. "You don't."

"I want…" Chloe stops. She knows how she wants to finish that sentence, but it's too laden with all the other bullshit to come out. It's stuck in the back of her throat somehow and it won't be pried free.

"I know," William says. "I want that, too."

"But I can't… I can't—"

Tears start to well in her eyes. She's not close enough to the fire to feel the heat yet, but she can feel the dust and ash filtering through the air. It's harder to breathe with the weight of the fire looming over Arcadia Bay. She followed the train tracks this far, then headed off into the woods to where she hoped she'd find somewhere to wait out the shitstorm that had become her fight with Rachel Amber. But really, even if she never sees Rachel again, all she knows (without a doubt) is that she wants more than anything to be home. She wants her bed, her shitty dead plant, her dirty walls, the gallery of Max's photos hung up over her desk, the diner food, the… well. More than those things… more than _any_ of the things she could possibly imagine… she wishes she could be home right now with Joyce. Her phone has been dead for some time now, but she wonders if Joyce might've called. Maybe even a disappointed text would be a welcome sight for Chloe's red, stinging eyes.

"There's no way she would let me come back," Chloe says.

"All she's done is beg you to do exactly that," William tells her. "It's not too late to give it another shot."

"Not with dickstache," Chloe mutters. "I won't go home to that."

"Isn't she more important than him?" William asks. "Isn't being there for _her_ more important than being gone for _him_?"

"Because of him," Chloe corrects. "I'm not home _because_ of him."

"You meant to say because of _me_ ," William says. His smile fades a little, but he's still looking at her like she's the most precious thing in the world. There's that softness to his gaze that doesn't go away, no matter what he's feeling.

Was feeling.

Chloe has to remind herself that he's not there. She's not talking to her Dad. Well, not unless that hole in the earth opened up and spat him back out again as fresh as a daisy. In Chloe's experience, that isn't really how it tends to work.

"Yeah, okay," Chloe says. "That's what I meant. But so what? So what if everything terrible about my life now is because _you died_?"

"It's not all terrible," William says. "Some of it's really beautiful."

"Like my best friend? Oh wait… she left. Or maybe my school? No, not that. I got kicked out of that. How about Rachel Amber? No, no. She's more of a Satanically-summoned succubus who probably wants to devour me in my sleep. And in case you haven't noticed, the whole fucking world is on fire!"

"You're right," William says plainly. "That's all pretty terrible."

"So what's _not_ terrible?" she asks. "Give me one _not_ terrible thing—just one."

William frowns, taking inventory of Chloe's pile of trash life. But as soon as he opens his mouth to say it, she already knows what it'll be. In a lot of ways, though, she doesn't want it to be true. She wants him to be wrong and she wants him not to say it. But he says it all the same:

"You're here."

She knows he doesn't mean that being in the burning woods is a not-terrible thing. She knows that he doesn't mean the fact that she's homeless and badly in need of a shower… in the woods… the on-fire woods, hopefully in the process of coming to her senses so she can decide where to go from this tree.

Chloe wipes her nose on her sleeve and looks around at the branches and leaves scattered along the ground. At some point they must've been waaaay up there—all the way up to where the canopy parts and the clouds peek through. They were attached and growing strong and healthy, soaking in the sun and tipping their heads down in the rain.

Now they're here.

Now Chloe's here.

Now everything is right at the bottom where it belongs, just above the dirt, just below the rest of the branches. This is where everything that's here _belongs_.

"I'm here," Chloe murmurs in affirmation, picking at a dead leaf near her boot.

"And now we can go anywhere," William says. "How about that trip to Canada, like you said?"

Chloe chuckles sadly. "You were right about that one," Chloe says. "She had no idea what that meant to me."

"Maybe she's just as scared as you are," William says.

"If she is, she's a hell of a lot better at hiding it."

"Is that so bad?" William asks.

"It is when you need someone to tell you the fucking truth every once in a blue moon."

"Chloe… she lied. People do that sometimes when they're scared. Don't you think her Mom being away makes her feel… I don't know… however people feel when one of their parents isn't there anymore like they used to be?"

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Chloe mutters sarcastically.

"And do you remember how you felt when Max left? When you had to be alone in that house where I used to be? That was hard with no one around who understood."

"Mom understood."

"Not like you did," William says. "She lost her friend… her partner in crime… her partner in _you_. But she understood what it was like to lose someone. Plenty of someone's. You were different, though. Your illusion of invincibility was shattered, and that's something that doesn't come back. Maybe Rachel just lost that too—her safety net… her understanding of what it's like to be cared about."

"I guess."

"So… if you think about it… it kinda sounds like she's here, too," William says, picking up a stick and turning it over in his hands.

Chloe feels selfish. She feels like the type of person she's been trying to convince herself Max hasn't become, and she knows (and hates) that William is right. Dead, sure. But right. Maybe dead right?

"Whose side are you on, anyway?" Chloe sighs.

William laughs. "We've been over this, haven't we? I'm not really here," he says. "Makes me wonder what side _you're_ on."

"Kinda sounds like Rachel's side," Chloe mutters.

"Don't you think it's time you told her that?"

William points into the forest at a shape moving in the distance. Chloe's heart leaps in her chest and she can't quite figure out why she'd be so excited to see Rachel. She's trying not the let the stubbornness fade away—she deserves to be upset with the lying Ms. Princess. But maybe it would be good for once to just let that all go and think about someone else for a change...

"Rachel?" Chloe calls.

The shape stops moving.

"Wait… Rachel, it's me—it's Chloe!" she calls out, getting to her feet and brushing the pine needles off her jeans.

She starts walking towards the still form in the distance, but pauses, turning back to William.

"You're… you're not gonna leave, are you?" Chloe asks. "If I go?"

William widens his smile. He doesn't say anything, but she knows his answer: he was never even here.

So off Chloe goes, walking quickly towards Rachel in the distance, obscured by the ashes collecting bits of the afternoon's swampy, orange glow.

"Rach—I'm sorry about earlier," she calls into the trees. "I know I shouldn't have done that to your Dad… or you."

Leave it to the drama queen to stay put and make Chloe do all the leg work. Though this does seem rather appropriate, Chloe closing the remaining distance between them after Rachel must've walked for hours to get here. It's only fair. But Chloe is worried that Rachel is having second thoughts. Maybe she doesn't want Chloe to come closer. After all that walking and all that thinking… maybe she came all this way to tell Chloe it's over—whatever "this" was.

"Rachel?" Chloe says.

As she gets closer, the shape makes a quick movement and suddenly looks very much unlike what Chloe expected.

Her heart sinks. Her chest deflates like a soufflé too soon out of the oven. When she gets too close to the little white-speckled doe, it bounds away, probably spooked by the yelling… and the heavy walking… or was that a run? Chloe can't remember how much effort she was putting in just then. More than she should have, obviously—she's finding it hard to breathe.

Chloe drops to her knees, overcome by the disappointment of the deer not being Rachel. Rubbing at her eyes, she feels more duped than anything else (though she does feel awfully stupid after all the foolishness of this weekend). What on earth was she _thinking_? She just wanted to get away from the junkyard. She thought she was going to find somewhere to lay low for a while… but maybe she wanted to go back to the epicenter of the mess and find that tree…

 _The tree where it happened_.

Everything is always leading back to Rachel somehow, and at the time Chloe felt a little like she needed to unwind herself from the ball of yarn that had become her understanding of that tangled, sloppy relationship. Friendship. Relationship. Superpower. Whatever she wants to call it, it's all the same disaster. She knows she can't go anywhere near the beginning of it all… but that isn't going to stop her from trying. She planned originally to just wander down the tracks and wait for a train, but when it didn't come she decided to head for the smoke. Head for the point of impact where her life became whatever the fuck it is right now. Find the spot where all the devils broke loose from Hell and emptied themselves into Arcadia Bay—the spot on the overlook where she didn't mean to touch Rachel's hand when she reached for the viewfinder… didn't mean to press their cheeks together at the junction of the two wide lenses and didn't mean to smell Rachel Amber's hair.

Chloe's wanted lots of things over the past few days, and most of them have involved being angry or stubborn.

She doesn't think she wants that anymore.

She thinks she wants to go home and hug her Mom.

* * *

Rachel is quick about moving through the forest. Late afternoon light filters through the smoky trees, giving everything a warm, orange glow… which makes Rachel feel like the light is emanating from the very core of Oregon, and the whole thing is an oven closing around Arcadia Bay. She's angry with herself for not giving Chloe a phone charger.

Then again, the more Rachel thinks about it, the less she think Chloe would be the type to answer a text or a call when she's angry. Rachel would likely still be galumphing through the woods looking like a complete head case in her brand new Converse. What was she thinking? She supposes that maybe she _wasn't_ , and though it seems like an unsatisfactory answer, she's certain her shoes are the least of her worries.

After walking for some time Rachel reaches a yellow caution tape line. It must be the firefighters trying to keep people out of the area, though she can't imagine anyone but Chloe Price would take a fire that big as an invitation to do something stupid… like get close to it on purpose. She ducks under the tape and keeps going, taking off her flannel as the sweat starts to bead on her forehead.

God, it's hot.

She chuckles hopelessly to herself, feeling stupid for even feeling like she has a right to complain about the heat. Rachel knows she did this. She knows this is her fault. She knows that all the badness that's happened since she opened the doors of Blackwell and asked Chloe Price to ditch with her is entirely her fault. Rachel wants to blame the rewind. She wants to blame the fact that things are always supposed to go her way, and an outside force is preventing her from getting what she wants.

The more she thinks about it the more selfish it sounds.

She decides she doesn't care.

It's hard to have everything one day and nothing the very next… after a series of misfortunes that could easily have been prevented by a little self control and forethought.

No, she can't think of it that way. Unlike how things normally go, it is what it is this time. Things have to be what they will be, and Rachel has to (for the first time) come to terms with that. She has power here still. She can control herself at the very least… as far as she knows. Though Chloe makes that more difficult than she anticipated.

 _The task at hand, Rachel_ , she thinks to herself. _The task at hand._

Find Chloe, say whatever she needs to say to get her to come back to the junkyard, and then live happily ever after. No, wait… Chloe, junkyard, find out who the Unknown texter is, kick their ass, _then_ live happily ever after. Okay, hold on. Chloe, junkyard, texter, ass-kicking, find out what the fuck is up with her rewind (and hopefully get it back), and _then_ live happily ever after. Yeah, that's it. No, wait…

Rachel is startled by a movement in the nearby brush. She ducks behind a tree, but realizes soon after that it was only a deer passing through. Probably trying to get away from the fire…

She feels foolish. It makes her wonder how Chloe feels, especially knowing that Chloe tends to run away or spiral when she's upset. She must be on a whole other level of upset. _If_ she's actually in these woods, that is. "West" counts for just about a whole quarter of the world, if she's being honest with herself (and she _hates_ being honest with herself lately).

Rachel finds a fallen tree and decides to sit down for a minute, knowing that Chloe is probably getting further and further away with every minute… knowing that those minutes are never, ever coming back.

Her phone buzzes.

"Oh for crying out loud!" she groans. Of course it's the Unknown asshole. What could they possibly want this time? To rattle off something cryptic and unhelpful when Rachel is inches from losing her entire shit? Yeah, that's exactly what she _doesn't_ need. She scrolls through the missed texts and sees that… it looks like the unknown person actually tried to call her. While it seems like a departure from their usual M.O. there may be something more important going on here. The most recent few messages have just been a series of "left" and "right" directions.

Maybe the Unknown number has an idea about where Chloe could be headed…

She taps the "call" button, holds the phone up to her ear… and she waits.

The phone rings once…

Twice…

Three times.

Rachel feels stupid. Again. This is ridiculous. She's tried this. She's called this number before and nobody picked up. It didn't even go to voicemail, it just disconnected. Why is she bothering with this? There is definitely nothing good on the other end of the—

"You're going the wrong way," says a low voice.

Rachel is taken aback. She holds the phone away from her ear to confirm that it definitely came from the speaker and that she's actually talking to Unknown.

"Who are you?" Rachel asks.

"Turn around."

Rachel swallows hard. She knew it would come to this. She knows that when she turns around she'll get murdered in the woods by the Unknown person, who happens to be standing right behind her. Maybe this was all a ploy to get both girls into the woods. She can only imagine why Chloe would've listened to this mysterious asshat, but they must've known Rachel would go looking for her… and probably follow any directions, whether they led to a secret forest slaughterhouse or not.

She pivots slowly… the hairs on her neck begin to stand on end as she listens to the white noise coming from the phone speaker. When she finally looks…

There's no one there.

"Now walk," the voice growls.

Rachel can't help but breathe a sigh of relief. Thank fuck.

"What will I find?" Rachel asks. "Why are you doing this?"

"Stop ignoring my texts, Rachel. Help Chloe get that truck put back together."

"Why?"

"There's a white Toyota by the east fence. Take the battery, start the truck. You'll need it by the hideout."

"Not unless you tell me who you are!" Rachel says, almost shouting into the phone.

"Good luck, Rachel."

"Don't you _dare_ hang up on me, you little—"

 _Click._

Rachel throws her phone with a force she didn't realize she could muster, shouting obscenities after it as it clatters against a tree and disappears into the leaves. She kicks at the dirt, scuffing the white toe of her shoe on a large, hidden rock.

"Fuck!" she shouts, collapsing to the ground in pain. "What the _fuck!_ "

She clutches her foot, tears spilling down her cheeks—a mixture of anger and now a throbbing foot to boot. What the fuck indeed. She was positively beside herself. What the hell does any of that garbage mean? What white Toyota? Why put the truck near the hideout? How does this jackass know where Chloe is? What kind of _coward_ is pulling the strings from behind the curtain?

She leans back against the log, pulling her knees up to her chin and sobbing freely into her ripped jeans. She didn't realize how shitty it feels to be powerless until that phone call. How is she so weak and fragile now that she can't even get what she wants from someone who seems like they want to help her? Why is it so hard to find a grimy delinquent in a forest?!

"Rachel?"

It's a timid enough sound… but there's only one person she knows who still manages to say her name without the slightest hint of reverence… or malice… or…

"Chloe…"

Chloe bends down to try and help Rachel up, but instead Rachel pulls Chloe into a hug that ends up toppling her face-first into Rachel's shoulder. Instead of letting Chloe go so she can re-adjust, Rachel just squeezes her tighter—holding her there for dear life and hoping to God (or whoever) that this is the hardest thing that'll ever happen to either of them again. Chloe makes a sarcastic comment about not being able to breathe, but Rachel ignores it.

"Don't ever leave me like that again, you asshole," Rachel mumbles into Chloe's hair. "I ruined my shoes for you, you fucking child."

Chloe starts to laugh.

"Why are you laughing? I'm having a moment," Rachel scolds.

"What a goddamn princess," Chloe says.

"Don't be mean to me right now," Rachel says. "I'm fragile."

"Fragile as a concrete block," Chloe mutters. "Can you get off now? You're hurting me."

"You weren't supposed to find me," Rachel says, loosening her grip enough for Chloe to slide away. "I was supposed to find _you_."

"Yeah, well I heard somebody screaming bloody murder. I figured some poor soul must've broken a nail or something—some kind of emergency."

"Not a nail," Rachel says. "My fucking foot."

Chloe looks down at Rachel's muddy shoe.

"This one?" she asks.

Rachel nods, wiping her face on her flannel and clutching the ball of fabric to her chest.

Chloe carefully undoes the sloppy knot in Rachel's shoelaces and loosens them with surgical precision. With a gentle tug, she frees Rachel's foot from both the shoe and the sock.

"Holy shit," Chloe says.

"What, is it bad?" Rachel asks, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

"A disaster," Chloe says. "We'd better get you to a hospital."

"Oh God…" Rachel groans, letting her head fall back against the log.

"Not you, dingus," Chloe laughs. "I was talking to the shoe."

Rachel shoves Chloe's arm. "You're such a dork," she says.

Chloe shrugs as she reassembles Rachel's footwear, careful not to bump the swollen bruise forming on the top of her foot. The way she's so gentle about it… Rachel is reminded of Nathan. Not because Nathan would be anywhere near Rachel's feet, but the attention Chloe pays to something small and insignificant—a gesture that ultimately doesn't matter—reminds her of the stool Nathan bought specifically for Rachel to use when she needed him and climbed through his window at night. It reminds her of the way he writes her notes on the backs of set pieces where he knows she'll have to walk by and read them just before going on stage: little words of encouragement like "RA is the best" and "Go get 'em, rockstar!"

She thinks back to The Tempest. Even though Victoria had written "RA will suck as Prospera" on the back of one of the wooden panels that made up the backdrop of the shipwreck scene, Nathan had Rachel's back: "If V.C. had any talent, maybe she would've gotten the part."

Chloe would've done something like that, Rachel is sure of it. Though… she might've also clocked Victoria into next week… it's hard to say for sure. Oh, Nathan. What a mess. Mr. "Always for you" is always trying to connect in ways he doesn't have the social grace to understand or carry out properly. Also like Chloe, but Chloe is more sure of herself than Nathan will ever be. She's a firm tree trunk rooted in the decision to be herself, and damned be all the rest. Rachel wishes she could be more like that, rather than constantly rewinding to be more like whoever was around.

"Listen, Rachel," Chloe says, "about last night…"

"You don't have to say it," Rachel tells her.

"No, I really think I should. It's… it's not what you think."

"You're not gonna say something terrible, are you?" Rachel asks.

"Just that I shouldn't have left like that," Chloe tells her. "I should've understood that you needed someone to… I don't know. Someone there. I know what that's like."

"I should've just been honest with you. About what I needed… and about my Dad," Rachel says. "He didn't try to get you back into Blackwell. I just… I said that because I was afraid of losing you… or him… I don't know. I'm still figuring that part out."

Chloe wants to flare up at her again. James _didn't_ try to get her back into Blackwell? Why would Rachel try to make Chloe feel guilty for something that didn't even happen? What kind of game is this?

Wait. No, Rachel is admitting it. People who admit things don't play games. This doesn't look like smashy Rachel or "give me what I want, or else" Rachel. This looks like… muddy shoes in the woods Rachel. This is Guilty Rachel.

But wait. Is this another ploy? Is this false guilt? Is she just being a talented actress right now to try and erase the problem so that there's nothing to fight about anymore?

"Please say something," Rachel says quietly. Why can't she bring herself to look at Chloe?

"I, uh… I don't know what to say," Chloe admits. "I guess I was upset until just now because I thought I did something stupid… to like, I don't know… jeopardize my chances of getting back into Blackhell. I'm not even sure I want that, but… either way, I guess I'm kinda relieved I never had a shot in the first place."

"I know I fucked up," Rachel says. "And I can't promise it won't happen again, but… will you help me? Maybe I just need the right reason to be honest, and… you're a pretty damn good reason."

"You're damn right I am," Chloe says.

And just like that, Rachel cracks a smile. Chloe didn't realize that was the moment she's been waiting for in order to release the tension in her shoulders and let out a long-held breath. That smile. It's mischief incarnate.

"Well while we're on the subject of honesty," Rachel says, "do you think you could help me find my phone?"

"What does that have to do with honesty?"

"I think we have some work to do," Rachel says. "We have to figure out who that mysterious Unavailable motherfucker is."

"I'm glad my phone's been dead, he was texting me nonstop until the very last percent."

"Chloe, I talked to that shithead on the phone," Rachel says grimly.

"You what?!"

"Unavailable isn't a 'he'," Rachel tells Chloe. "She's a girl."


	18. Chapter 18

**A Bad Plan**

Chloe is frozen in place. No matter how hard she tries to reason with her feet, they won't budge—something in her boots has suddenly turned to lead and nothing will let her leave this very spot.

"Are you sure you want me to be here?" Rachel asks, her hand resting on Chloe's shoulder (hoping to try and look like a person who knows how to support people going through a difficult time).

Chloe nods, but words won't come out of her mouth. Maybe if she stands here long enough, she'll starve to death and she won't have to open the door.

Rachel really wishes Chloe didn't want her to be here. The more she thinks about it, the more uncomfortable she gets with the idea of having to be in the crossfire of another Chloe vs. Joyce smackdown. She knows Chloe only wants her to be here as a distraction: get the lovely girl with the silver tongue to work her magic on the situation and make it all go away. And… maybe that would work. Normally. But things for Rachel haven't been very normal lately. If she messes this up, there's no rewind to come in and turn the tides back to civility. Rachel has exactly one shot at this, and if she screws it up, well… she'd rather not entertain the possibility.

Chloe can't seem to escape the brick in her chest. Here she is: standing on her front stoop, feeling like she ought to have a better excuse than "I've been at Rachel's". Which she hasn't. She's been in the woods like some kind of idiot who likes to play with fire. No, she doesn't like fire. She used to, but not anymore. That's what got her into this whole mess in the first place: a big ol' column of smoke and a smoldering tree. Fire can't possibly be something she enjoys anymore.

When she looks at Rachel though… maybe a love of fire isn't as far departed from the truth as she'd like to think. That girl is an absolute inferno. Looking into her hazel eyes might reveal a flickering flame dancing in the melded green and brown.

"Chloe?" Rachel says hesitantly.

"Hm?"

"You, uh… you do realize you have to go in at some point," Rachel says, almost a whisper.

"Yeah," Chloe mutters. "I know."

She tries to move her hand towards the doorknob, but it won't budge.

"Hey, Chloe?"

" _What_?" Chloe says, maybe with a little too much frustration peeking through.

"Do you want me to—?"

"Yeah, if you could, that'd be great," Chloe says, her cheeks getting hot with embarrassment. Who can't even open their own fucking door?

Rachel reaches for the knob and gives it a quarter turn.

"Rachel, wait—"

"What's wrong?" Rachel asks quietly, letting go of the knob.

"Nothing, I'm just… not sure I'm ready," Chloe says. "What if he's in there?"

"His car's not here," Rachel says. "We watched from the bushes—he drove off."

"You're right," Chloe says. "But… what if he comes back?"

"He's definitely gonna come back," Rachel tells her. "Doesn't he kinda live here?"

"Okay, well…"

"What?" Rachel asks.

"What if my Mom's home?" Chloe asks.

"Isn't… that… the point?"

"Uh… I mean, yeah technically, but… y'know, we could come back some other time. Maybe we oughtta just… go."

"Go where?" Rachel asks. "No offense, but you didn't exactly win any awards at dinner last night…"

"Does your Dad even have to know I'm there?"

"Not if you wanna stay in my room for the rest of your life and only come out at night to prey on helpless victims," Rachel says.

Chloe's body finds the courage to relax a little bit, her muscles falling out of their frozen statue pose and she stuffs her hands in her pockets.

"You'll protect me," Chloe tells her.

"What about while I'm at school?" Rachel asks.

"Fuck. I forgot you still have that."

"I wish I didn't," Rachel says.

"No you don't, Honors," Chloe mutters. "You're butt buddies with school."

"How'd you know I'm in honors?"

"You're Rachel Amber. Everyone knows that," Chloe says. "Even Frank knows that for some reason…"

"W-who?"

"Just my… this guy who apparently owns the junkyard—or… works for the guy who owns the junkyard. He's the one who kicked me out this morning."

"I thought you said it was cops who made you leave…"

"So you're the only one who's allowed to lie now?" Chloe says.

"But why _did_ you lie?"

"Because that's embarrassing," Chloe tells her. "Frank's a pussy."

"Ew… don't say 'pussy' like that," Rachel says.

"Seriously? The Drama Queen's afraid of 'pussy'?" Chloe chuckles.

"Not the actual… _thing_ …" Rachel says slowly. "Just… I don't like it when it's an insult."

"So you _like_ the actual thing?" Chloe smirks.

"I—that's not… Chloe!"

Chloe shrugs. "Just trying to paint a more detailed picture of you, princess," she says.

Rachel pouts, leaning against the door. "Well it's rude to trap people."

Chloe places her palm flat on the door next to Rachel's head and leans her weight on it, moving her mischievous smile closer to the princess.

"Am I being rude to you, your highness?" Chloe murmurs.

Rachel feels her heart pound up into her throat. She tries to swallow it back down, but it's stuck like a hard lump.

"I—" but she can't finish the sentence.

"Sorry, what was that?" Chloe chuckles.

Rachel feels a twinge of frustration. How _dare_ Chloe catch her off guard like this. How _dare_ she pluck up her charm at a moment like this and unleash those _eyes_ on Rachel. How _dare_ she! That's it. Time for the tables to turn back into their rightful position.

With a single motion, Rachel reaches for the doorknob and gives it a turn, sending Chloe and the door flying into the hallway of the Price residence. But of course Rachel can't maneuver herself out of the way quickly enough. If it were in her power, this moment would be among one of the ones rewound and forgotten: the moment of Rachel and Chloe in a pile on top of one another in the entryway of the Price house. Chloe on top of Rachel in the hallway of the Price house... both with their eyes fixed on none other than Joyce herself, hand on her hip, lips pursed together under a fed-up look that would make any high school delinquent (or honors student) start to go beet-red in the face with absolute shame. Rachel sweating under Chloe in the hallway of the Price house, the last few mosquitoes of the season filtering in through the wide-open door, convinced that this moment, if wished away hard enough, will disappear into the ether from whence it spawned—its sole purpose to destroy any shred of hope Rachel had of helping this homecoming go smoothly.

Joyce heaves a sigh: "I was wond'rin' when y'all would come in off that porch and get your bacon."

"Y-you made us bacon?" Chloe says.

Rachel wants to roll her eyes. Of _course_ Chloe is only thinking of her stomach at a time like this.

"When do I ever _not_ make you breakfast?" Joyce says, wandering off down the hallway towards the kitchen, beckoning the girls to come along without having to say it. Chloe pushes herself off the carpet and helps Rachel to her feet.

"I just figured, since I haven't been home…" Chloe mumbles.

"Well Rachel was kind enough to give me a heads up about you two droppin' by," Joyce says, the ghost of an eye roll surfacing in her tone.

Rachel stops.

Chloe stops.

 _What?_

Chloe looks over her shoulder, mouthing, "You did _what?!_ "

Rachel's eyes widen and she shakes her head no.

Chloe's eyes narrow.

"It's nice to have _someone_ lookin' out for you, Chloe… especially since apparently I ain't cuttin' the mustard lately," Joyce says, retrieving plates from the cupboard and transferring the eggs and bacon from the pan.

Chloe is too caught up in the headrush of betrayal to feel a twinge of embarrassment to have Rachel "The Princess" Amber pulling out a chair and sitting down at her crowded kitchen table. Well, it's a dining room table, but the Prices don't have a dining room, they have a kitchen that butts up to the living room. Technically it's living room table, but Chloe isn't thinking of the nuances of such a thing right now. She's too busy feeling broken in half by the drama queen's back-stabbing to notice Joyce making the smoothest smalltalk imaginable with Rachel.

This should be a nice moment. It should feel like Chloe's homecoming, not Rachel's triumphant herding of stubborn cattle. Chloe feels deceived… abandoned, even. Rachel smiles that gorgeous smile, but Chloe doesn't melt. Joyce does, but in the way of a grateful mother who finally got her daughter back. It makes Chloe want to bolt. She's never felt so fragile in a place before—like she could fade away at any minute, with the slightest pressure she could be gone. She feels like a soap bubble… floating alone between the branches of a pine forest.

Rachel laughs politely at Joyce's anecdotes.

Joyce smiles warmly at the silver-tongued princess.

Chloe sits solemnly on the edge of her seat, waiting impatiently for the muscles in her body to reconnect with the part of her brain that wants to run.

Joyce says something about having done laundry and maybe Chloe should put on some clean clothes, but Chloe isn't listening. She nods mechanically and goes on trying to process what's happening.

"She betrayed you, y'know," comes a voice from beside the fireplace.

William retrieves the doe snow globe from the mantle and gives it a pensive shake. Chloe looks down at her eggs.

"She lied… she's not on your side—because there _are_ sides, after all," William says. "There's your side…"

He sets the doe back on the mantle, then reaches for a framed picture. It's one of David posing sternly next to Joyce at some kind of barbecue or outdoor gathering; he's wearing a stuffy gray shirt buttoned all the way up and there's a grimace to his face that makes him look constipated.

"And then there's _his_ side…" William finishes, letting the frame slip from his hand casually the way a cat might knock over an unattended glass of water on a table.

Joyce and Rachel turn their heads at the sound of breaking glass, but Chloe doesn't look away from her plate.

"Oh, not again!" Joyce says, getting up from the table to retrieve the frame from the brick apron surrounding the fireplace. "This picture fell yesterday—I thought this new frame might keep it a little more stable…"

Rachel offers to help clean up the mess, but Joyce says, "Why don't you two head upstairs for a bit while I get this picked up? There's clean laundry in the hall for you, Chloe. It'd be nice if you put it away."

"Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Price," Rachel says, standing to gather the plates and move them into the kitchen. She nudges Chloe on her way into the other room and Chloe finally snaps back into the present.

The two girls make their way upstairs. Chloe's steps are perhaps more aggressive than they need to be in order to make their way to the second floor, but there's something satisfying about leaving deep boot impressions in the carpet as she goes. She walks right past the basket of clean laundry and into her bedroom, unable to turn and look to see if Rachel's soft footfalls followed her.

Part of her hopes not, because she wouldn't know where to begin. Maybe the princess can take a hint after all and will think twice before coming into Chloe's room. She'll go out the front door, quietly clicking it shut behind so as not to leave even a trace of sound in her place. The traitor will take a page out of Chloe's book and just go—run off, run far, and not look back until later when she's had a minute to sort out what's just happened.

But Rachel clears her throat from the other side of the doorway… and Chloe's heart sinks. Perfect. Time for a fan-fucking-tastic conversation. Chloe's hands are balled into tight fists as she faces the back wall, staring at the graffiti and band posters littering the mottled, off-white paint. Honestly, she's a little bit scared to turn around. She feels cornered. She wants to bolt. Why does she always want to bolt when it comes to Rachel? When it comes to _anyone_ , really—self proclaimed love-of-her-life or otherwise. Sorry, _superhero_ -of her life. Because it's only superheroes who have superpowers, right? So that would make Rachel Amber a spandex-wearing nimrod like Captain Fucking America, wouldn't it? She's the superhero that brought the wayward Chloe Price home. That's her angle: the savior.

"Chloe, I swear to God—" Rachel starts, but Chloe cuts her off, her back still to Rachel in the dum light trickling through the half-covered window that overlooks the cracked pavement.

"You didn't do it," Chloe says through gritted teeth.

"What?"

Chloe even surprises herself with that one. She means to say "I hate you", but it doesn't come out that way.

"You didn't text her," Chloe says. "Because I trust you and you wouldn't lie to me. Because you've lied to me before and you said you wouldn't do it again, and I know—"

Chloe's voice catches in her throat. Does she mean that? Trust? What is she doing? She _hates_ Rachel right now. William said it exactly right: Rachel betrayed Chloe. Rachel took the choice of coming home away from her—took advantage of her trust. She made it a _game_ again, and for what? To sell Chloe out to Joyce? What does Rachel have to gain from Joyce? Maybe Rachel just needs to look like the hero—she has to be the big savior who brought Chloe home and set her straight. Rachel will do anything to be the popular princess… even if that means taking away Chloe's education, taking away Joyce… taking away her shot at a normal life.

Well, William did that the day he put the key in the ignition all those years ago. Not on purpose, but—

Rachel digs in her pocket and pulls out her phone, taking a step towards Chloe.

"You can check—I didn't send her anything. I don't even have her number," Rachel says.

"I know," Chloe says, turning slowly to face Rachel. She notices there are tears welling up in the drama queen's eyes, and Chloe has to stop herself from thinking it's part of an act. She pushes Rachel's hand away from her.

"Y… you believe me?" Rachel sniffles.

Chloe shrugs. "I _want_ to," she says. "Isn't that enough?"

Before Chloe can say anything to the effect of "you're on thin ice", she feels her breathing constricted as two flannel sleeves wrap her tightly in a bear hug. Or is it a bear hug? It's firm, but it doesn't have that clumsy bigness to it. It's small and tight and somehow more familiar than a bear hug might be. Chloe tries to convince herself this is just a friendly hug, but it's hard to reconcile the idea of "friendship" with the placement of Rachel's hands…

"We should get to work, princess," Chloe says, trying to remove herself from the tight embrace, slowly wiggling her arms out from beneath Rachel's.

"Work?" Rachel asks, pulling back so that her hands are around Chloe's waist.

Chloe feels her face quickly starting to turn red. Something about the proximity of Rachel's face to her own makes her want to do something stupid, so she steps back and away from the drama queen.

"Uh, yeah," Chloe says, making her way toward her desk. She sits down and wakes up her computer. "We need to figure out a way to get to this asshole on the phone. That's why we came here, isn't it?"

"I thought we came to see Joyce," Rachel says.

"And we saw her," Chloe says. "Let's do something _daring_ for once and catch this fucking creep."

"And how do you think we're gonna find out who it is?" Rachel asks, hands on hips and ready to backtalk.

Chloe smirks mischievously. "This dibshit wants to protect us, right?" she asks.

"So far, it seems that way…"

"So…" Chloe says, opening her web browser and typing something in. "We give her something to protect us _from_."

Rachel squints at the screen and realizes what she's about to have to do.

"You're joking," Rachel says.

"You _wish_ I was joking."

Rachel sighs in resignation. "Okay," she says. "But we're not eighteen. How are we gonna get tickets?"

Chloe laughs. "Tickets? I haven't paid for a single concert in my life."

"So we sneak into a concert with a crowd of seedy nobodies, and then what?" Rachel asks.

"I do what I do best," Chloe says.

"Run away?" Rachel smirks, crossing her arms.

"Jesus—no! I pick a fight."

"So we sneak in, get our asses kicked—"

"We're not gonna get our asses kicked," Chloe says. "We're gonna get ourselves in enough trouble that this asshole has to come save us or something."

"That's how _movies_ work, Chloe. And in case you haven't noticed, this isn't the cinematic universe where everything works out okay all the time. For Christ's sake—the whole town is on fire!"

"Fine," Chloe says. "If you're too scared, I'm perfectly prepared to go by myself."

"Chloe…"

"No, no. I can handle it. You can go home, I just need to get some stuff together and I'll be on my way."

"Chloe, don't be a dibshit."

Chloe gets up from her chair and goes to the corner for her backpack. She starts rummaging around the room for a flashlight and anything else that might come in handy. She pokes through her closet, roots through her drawers—aha! Duct tape. Wait, why does she have that up here? Couldn't have been to fix that pack piece she stole off some idiot at the last Bird Dark concert… she distinctly remembers using electrical tape for that.

Rachel sits backwards on Chloe's desk chair, resting her chin on the back and watching skeptically as Chloe mishandles a thick roll of duct tape. Why the fuck does she have duct tape?

Chloe dumps the tape into her bag and unearths a black hoodie from her closet. Wait… why does it still smell dank as hell? When's the last time she even smoked? Frank hasn't been giving her the usual credit line… maybe he's sick of her never paying up...

When she finally reaches for her skateboard under her desk, Rachel puts her hand on Chloe's wrist.

"You seriously think I'm gonna let you do something stupid as fuck without me?" Rachel asks.

"We could make it _two_ stupid-as-fuck things," Chloe says, raising an eyebrow and smiling that dangerous smile.

Rachel's face goes red immediately. Does Chloe mean what she _thinks_ Chloe means? Uh… maybe it's something else. Is it impolite to ask? What if Rachel is wrong and then she ends up sounding stupid? Or… what if she's right and she _doesn't_ end up sounding stupid? What if this is Chloe asking for the go-ahead, and all Rachel has to do is say yes? Is that even something she _wants_ from Chloe? Uh… _with_ Chloe? To do _to_ Chloe? How does a person know these things? Is there like a quiz or something? A questionnaire online with a yes-or-no section that gives you the answer and also your personality type? Wait, does Chloe even mean—?

Chloe digs into the pocket of her hoodie and holds out a closed fist to Rachel.

"Wh-what?" Rachel has to swallow a mouthful of nervous saliva before speaking, and even then, the words that come out aren't that impressive. Well… _word._ Not even more than one word. But maybe the stammer in the beginning counts as a word? Or at least a partial...? God, she doesn't know. But what in the hell is Chloe holding?

"You've gotta gimme _your_ hand now, your highness," Chloe chuckles.

Rachel snaps back to the realization that she even _has_ hands. When she finally finds where she's put them, she's able to reach one out, palm up, and wait for Chloe to drop—

Rachel's face goes blank. Chloe is suddenly nervous. Was this a mistake? She thought Rachel was cool with it, but maybe not.

"Shit, were you not thinking what I was thinking?" Chloe asks.

"I—" Rachel doesn't know how to finish that sentence. "Uh…"

Not a strong start. Okay, how to finish… how to be fine with it but not too fine with it… just fine enough to be cool about it, but… not entirely cool about it. Reprimand, but don't—

"I thought it'd be something else," Rachel says, and then immediately realizes she sounds disappointed. _Fuck._

"Yikes," Chloe mumbles, taking the joint back from the princess' outstretched hand. "I… I just found it in this hoodie, I don't… I didn't remember putting it there. Honestly it's probably not even mine…"

"No, no," Rachel says quickly. "I'm… I'm not mad it's a joint. It's just not what I was thinking it'd be."

"What did you think it would be?"

"A… uh… y'know, like a mint or something. I don't know," Rachel says. _Shit._ _A_ _mint or something?! What?!_ Is Rachel suddenly a ninety-year-old woman digging around in a purse?

"Sorry to disappoint," Chloe chuckles. "I'm sure I've got those around here somewhere... if you really want…"

"No, I don't—shit. I—"

"You don't shit?" Chloe laughs.

" _Fuck!_ "

"Calm down, your highness," Chloe says, a smile still playing across her lips. "Your bowels are your business. I'm just tryin' to solve a mystery here. And maybe get a little high on the way..."

"I know, I know," Rachel sighs, struggling to come back from the embarrassment. "I—yeah, okay, let's… let's smoke this fucking joint and then go kick some hillbilly ass."

"Fuck yeah! This is gonna be epic," Chloe says, rooting around for her lighter.

"Hella epic," Rachel says, but she's not entirely as convinced as she sounds. For an actress, she sure is missing her marks and flubbing her lines. For some reason Chloe has that effect on her. But maybe with a little something extra in her system she'll be more up for the challenge of smoothly navigating the awkward territory she's so used to skipping over and taking back. She pulls out her phone and texts Nathan:

 _Are you free to chat for a minute?_

Chloe finally reaches into the pocket of an old leather jacket by the bedroom door and is startled to see William leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. She drops the lighter.

"Are you serious?" William asks flatly.

Chloe whispers, "Not _now_ , Dad," and tries to pick the lighter back up, but William puts his foot over it.

"C'mon, it's just like old times," Chloe says quietly, peering over her shoulder to make sure Rachel isn't looking. She's busy texting someone.

" _She's_ not a part of _our_ old times," William says, a frown bringing his eyebrows closer to his darkening eyes.

"Lighten up, it's Rachel. We like her," Chloe says.

"Do we?" William asks. "Or do we like that she likes _us_?"

Chloe does a dismissive gesture.

"Or _does_ she like us?" William asks. "Does she really? Or does she only like us when it's _convenient_ for her?"

Chloe turns back to Rachel who has finished her texting and is frowning down at the lighter on the floor.

"Forgetting something?" Rachel asks.

"Uh… no, I just—"

Rachel comes over and reaches out for the lighter. As she does so, Chloe watches the frown on William's face turn into a cruel smile. Fear streaks through Chloe's stomach as the coat rack rocks forward and topples toward Rachel.

Chloe makes a dive.

She's not sure what she's hoping to accomplish. Maybe she'll catch it, maybe she'll get in the way and at least keep Rachel from getting hit. It's only brass, there are worse things to get hit in the head with, but… not getting hit at all is usually a better option. Why would William do this anyway? First the picture, now this? Why is he suddenly so disenchanted by the drama queen? He was on her side in the woods… why is he trying to hurt her now?

Rachel feels the room slow down. The lighter goes out of focus and suddenly things start crawling backwards. She feels that tug in her stomach like old times, and part of her is relieved. She actually _missed_ that feeling for a minute. Or… maybe a few minutes. A few _days_ , really. But that means something is going wrong. Just like in Wells' office, something wasn't going the way it had to go. Rachel looks around: Chloe looks panicked. Her hands are outstretched like she wants to catch something… Rachel follows Chloe's eyes to the falling coat rack. With the way it's angled, it likely would've hit her on its way down. Why does Chloe have so many coats on one side of it? Rachel realizes now isn't the time to critique Chloe's lack of balance and channels her energy instead towards moving out of the way—just ever so slightly. She's looking for a passable near-miss here, not a triumphant dodge.

Time speeds up again as if to compensate for having slowed down, and Rachel tries to make it seem as if she had completed the act of retrieving the lighter from the floor and was just on her way back to an upright position.

The coat rack hits the floor with a heavy thud, and Rachel has to ask herself what kind of damage that might actually have done if it had hit her like it should've.

"Are you okay?!" Chloe asks, having ineffectively tried to catch the falling brass nightmare.

"What the _fuck_?!" Rachel asks, pretending to be aghast at the near miss.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! It didn't hit you, did it?"

"No, I'm fine," Rachel says, watching as Chloe shoots the far corner a dirty look. What's that corner ever done to Chloe Price? Maybe a stray wind from the open window upset the coat rack?

Chloe scowls at William, hoping that this is a one-time deal. He looks so smug sitting on the edge of the desk like he's just done everyone a favor, but Chloe finds herself feeling more guilty than angry. He smiles a devious smile that Chloe doesn't remember ever seeing on his face—on William's _real_ face, and—

No, No. Wait…

Chloe has to remind herself there _is_ no William.

* * *

Author's Note:

I don't normally like to butt in like this on the story, but bear with me for just a minute! I wanted to thank everyone for reading and giving feedback—it's been a blast creating for such a supportive community! Thanks to everyone who has commented, followed, favorited, or just stopped by to take a peek. Your patience and love have really made this all happen, so I wanted to make sure you all know how much I appreciate you! As always, your questions and comments are super helpful, and I look forward to many more chapters. Thanks again!


	19. Chapter 19

**Fuzzy, But With Nails**

Rachel has never heard crickets chirp so loudly before. Actually, she's never heard _anything_ as loud as the walk to the Mill… in the dark… in the cold… on a school night. And, oh man… Rachel is _nervous_. On any normal night she would be in bed by now. Not necessarily sleeping, but at least huddled under her covers staring up at the pinprick constellations from her dim little star lamp. She wishes that could be the case tonight: a warm mug of tea, a soft, cozy blanket, and a quiet, dark bedroom to fall asleep in. Or try.

But that's not the way tonight has to be.

Tonight is about Chloe and her hairbrained scheme to catch this "Unknown" woman in the act. But really… Rachel isn't sure what the "act" even is. Is Unknown trying to protect them? Is she trying to tell them something? Why would she call Rachel in the woods and say such cryptic things about the stupid "white truck in the junkyard"? It could very well be that someone out there is genuinely looking out for the girls and wants them to be safe… but then again… maybe the Unknown person really just wants Rachel and Chloe out of Arcadia Bay. What better way to rush someone into the jaws of a larger danger than to convince them their home isn't safe?

More than she's convinced Arcadia Bay is dangerous, though, Rachel is convinced it's a mistake to sneak into the Mill to stir up trouble. But Chloe isn't listening, and she's the type who won't be told. Stubborn Chloe is at the helm tonight and can't be swayed toward reason. Her boots make hard, determined steps through the brush by the train tracks as the two girls plod up the overgrown hill to the thumping wooden structure ahead.

It was a long walk with some unforgiving terrain, so traveling light was a must. It had taken an inordinate amount of smooth-talking to get Chloe to leave her skateboard and supply bag at home, though. Rachel had initially used the argument that the bulky bring-alongs would slow down the operation if they had to make a quick escape, but Chloe insisted they could stash everything by the train tracks. Rachel suggested it might be hard to justify bringing something that never made it inside, but Chloe kept referring to the skateboard as her "getaway car" and Rachel had to work pretty hard to keep her eye-rolling to a minimum. After the final attempt of "a bouncer isn't gonna let in two kids with a backpack full of duct tape and hedge trimmers", Chloe finally saw the light. Rachel had known from the beginning that there was nothing a little batting of her eyelashes couldn't convince Chloe to do, but where would the fun be in manipulating a helpless victim? It had taken every ounce of her self control to maintain a cool and even "we're just friends right now" temperament, complete with crossed arms and the occasional aloof gaze out the window. At the time, Rachel was honestly quite surprised to learn that Chloe was a creature capable of reason outside of her fumbling puppydog attraction.

"Keep up, princess," Chloe calls back over her shoulder. "We're gonna miss the headliner."

Rachel widens her strides in an attempt to catch up to Chloe.

"You're a giant—your legs are too long," Rachel says.

Chloe smiles her heartbreaker smile. "Sorry, your highness," she says. "I forgot you're used to being carried on a litter."

Rachel stuffs her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. "Don't be stupid. You just take bigger steps."

"Well you know what they say about big steps…" Chloe laughs.

"Big dicks," Rachel mutters.

"Why'd ya have to make it gross?"

"Who says dicks are gross?" Rachel asks.

"Um… hello? Science? Simple _fact_? The very mention of the one-eyed-monster makes me wanna hurl…"

Chloe dramatically mimes having a chill shoot through her spine and Rachel rolls her eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" she mutters to Chloe, who is pretending to throw up into her beanie.

"I wasn't hugged enough as a child."

Rachel decides it's better for her not to respond. She knows full well that Chloe was hugged exactly enough as a child. It was the lack of hugging later in life that might have had an impact, but Rachel isn't a doctor.

Chloe has actually told Rachel many times how her father died. All of them rewound, of course, and forgotten by Chloe, but hearing about the way the police said the car went up in smoke… it was hard to scrub completely from Rachel's mind. It's hard not to picture her own father that way—his flesh melting, the smell of an oil fire burning his thousand dollar suit...

Rachel can remember where she was that day, too: in Paris with her parents, probably picking out a pair of jeweled bracelets or a string of pearls for her cousin's wedding the next spring. It was warm where Rachel was standing and staring into the window of some little shop near their hotel—the sun was shining, birds fluttered past the musicians playing by the river, and children ran through the grass throwing fresh lawn trimmings and petals into the air, squealing and collapsing into the earth when the debris fell back down.

The sun was shining in Arcadia Bay, too, Chloe had said many times. She just couldn't really notice it anymore after a while. She didn't notice a lot of things. She told Rachel once that it was almost as if Chloe had been put down in that hole in the earth with her father—and in a lot of ways, that might have even made it better. Being buried alive might have softened the blow of burying the most important part of her.

And Rachel knows Chloe still has dreams of William. She's heard Chloe mumbling about a fire in her sleep, and marshmallows… Rachel wonders what sort of man William was that he left such a gulch in Chloe when he went away. Thinking about her own father, Rachel wonders if she would share such a powerful sentiment. The relationship she has with her father now is nothing like it was when she was younger. She remembers it as Chloe describes: light. It was sunbathed and golden between the branches of trees and wet grains of sand. Their childhood fathers were heroes and everything was simpler then. Thinking back, James had a different job then, though. He was just a small-town law enforcement officer, not the Big Bad Wolf of Arcadia Bay. Maybe that was the thing—the lynchpin in all of this. His job. The only real difference between Chloe's family and Rachel's is money—that job—and maybe something like that can change the way you love someone you made. If not for the obligation of love, it seems unlikely to Rachel that her father would give her the time of day. But then again, if not for this 'superpower', it's unlikely that Rachel would give _Chloe_ the time of day… and it's unlikely she would be galumphing through the woods to solve a mystery that doesn't need solving.

As the muddy-footed delinquents clear the brush and round the last turn in the path to the Mill, Chloe puts out a hand to stop Rachel, who is now starting to regret not letting Chloe bring the snacks.

"Hang on," Chloe whispers.

They approach a low wooden gate. Beyond it, a few sparse trees and some abandoned air conditioning units separate the two girls from the flashing lights and thundering music coming from inside the formidable building. The Mill stretches up into the stars, faded red paint sliding off the graying wood and into the cracked earth below.

This place is a deathtrap, Rachel thinks, and everything in it is destined to die. She thinks about the sweating, writhing bodies lurching back and forth to the sound of death metal and the acrid stench of cigarette smoke.

"That's not the normal bouncer," Chloe says.

"So what?" Rachel asks. "You got past the other one—what's the difference if it's this meatbag or another one?"

"He looks… uglier," Chloe says. "Which probably means he's less likely to be in a giving mood…"

Rachel heaves a heavy sigh. "C'mon, princess," she says to Chloe. "This way."

"Woah, woah, woah… 'princess'?!" Chloe snaps.

Rachel shrugs. "Guess it's true what they say—it takes one to know one."

"Oh shut up," Chloe says, straightening her black hoodie. "I'm goin' in there, and that stupid-lookin' motherfucker isn't gonna stop me."

"Attagirl."

With all the resolve of a teenage hoodlum (and completely determined to show off in front of a pretty little vixen in tight jeans and an oversized Waterloo Crash hoodie), Chloe balls up her fists at her sides and takes long, powerful strides towards the crooked-faced bouncer covered in flame tattoos. One of his eyes is completely swollen shut under a throbbing purple bruise, but he spots Chloe's overeager gate from the edge of the treeline and starts laughing.

"What the hell are _you_ supposed to be?" he cackles.

"You want me to answer that, or d'you wanna get outta the way so I can see the fucking show I paid for?" Chloe snaps.

"You mean the show your _Mommy_ paid for?" the bouncer laughs. His arms are rippling with muscles and crossed firmly over some suspicious stains on his wife-beater. The chains on his baggy shorts jangle as his big belly rumbles with mocking laughter.

"Great—a Mom joke. That's fresh. Got any new material under that shitty Hot Wheels paint job?" Chloe retorts.

The bouncer's face drops into a scowl and his nostrils flare.

"Get outta here, kid—before I throw you out."

"There's no way you could throw me anywhere with that thing," Chloe gestures to the bouncer's beer belly. "You'll hurt the baby!"

Rachel can only just make out what they're saying… but she can definitely see the size of the bouncer's biceps, and she hopes like hell that Chloe knows what she's doing.

"What are you, eight months along?" Chloe says smugly.

Rachel wants to run. She can see the heat rising up the bouncer's chubby neck and through a few pulsating temple veins. Rachel has seen some real shit go down, and she knows that it's time to get Chloe, and it's time to run. No… it's _past_ the time to run. There aren't enough seconds left for Rachel to even realize what's happening before the bouncer lunges forward, hoists Chloe up over his thick shoulder, and tosses her head first into a nearby pile of rubble.

For fuck's sake.

"You come back over here again, you won't land so pretty," the bouncer shouts into the trash heap where Chloe is dragging herself toward a gap in the debris.

Rachel's phone buzzes.

It's odd to think about how her feelings toward Unknown have changed just in the past two days. Initially Rachel was annoyed, convinced it was Nathan playing a joke (though Rachel really has been needing a laugh, and it would be just like Nathan to know that and try something desperate to help). When the texts got more specific, though… that big eye-roll-of-a-feeling turned into worry… then to a keen fear of danger… then fear of losing Chloe… and now it's almost a relief. Rachel knows that whoever is on the other end of the line is desperately trying her best to help. Or… Rachel _hopes_ so. _God, she hopes so_.

She checks her phone, but it isn't Unknown.

It's Nathan:

 _I'm sorry I got defensive earlier._

Rachel doesn't want to respond. That question she asked all those hours ago was a mistake that she can't take back... because she can't take _anything_ back lately. The conversation had been plain enough, but Nathan was definitely acting weird. She had asked the wrong question—the answer to which she already knew—and got an answer that she hadn't been expecting. It was a mistake. _Her_ mistake. And now Nathan is apologizing for it?

She had started like she sometimes does when she wants to be taken for a courteous person:

 _Are you free to chat for a minute?_

But in Rachel's own mind, this is just another way to let Nathan know that she understands he'll always be free to chat with her. It's her way of reminding him that he is _expected_ to be free to chat with her. He had responded as she would've assumed:

 _Always for you_.

Then she had asked the terrible question—no warning, no forethought, no introduction… just the question. And then it was too late to take it back:

 _Have you ever felt like trying anything… recreational?_

She had phrased it in a way that she thought he might respond best to… in a way that suggested she wasn't sure if she should try something herself (though of course she had already tried it many times). She wanted it to seem like maybe she wanted some sage advice from wise, powerful Nathan Prescott—who she knew has been buying drugs from Frank since eighth grade. Of course, she would never _tell_ him she knew that, and would never ask outright why he always got so plastered at parties. But maybe if she introduced it just right—asked for advice in the exact perfect way—maybe he would respond and tell her everything she wanted to know. He would tell her why he needed so many drugs (though she already knew) and he would tell her he was so sorry for what happened at the last Vortex Club party, and how it was the Molly making him say what he'd said. He would cry, she would forgive him, and they could move on from the awkward tension they've been building since that night. And then maybe he would think it was an excuse for the two of them to do something _together_. Who knew? All Rachel did was put the thoughtless question out into the air, and… well. That was indeed the obvious mistake. He replied:

 _Why would you ask that?_

And there was no time to backpedal. It was too late. Rachel was there in the room with the mistake-question, and a bad decision just _begging_ to be made with Chloe Price's bare shoulders. And _God_ did she ever want to make it. Maybe it would start with drugs. Maybe drugs would lead to touching. Maybe touching would lead to another forbidden kiss that would make Rachel's knees go wobbly and the walls disappear. She knew drugs could make that happen... she'd done plenty of them herself. But then again... Rachel was terrified of what things would be like if drugs _didn't_ make that happen. She just needed to leave the room for a minute, that's all. She needed a quick break that wouldn't scare Chloe into thinking she'd been abandoned again. So Nathan was a two-minute escape from… well. Rachel couldn't have said at the time what she was escaping from, but it clicked when the girls headed off to the Mill. She was escaping from having to acknowledge the fact that she was grappling with a decision. One choice was to deny the joint and move on, hoping that whatever might've happened with a joint's help would happen again some other time on its own. The other choice was to smoke the joint. Smoke the joint with Chloe Price like she said she would. Loosen things up. Maybe force a little contact… touch Chloe's arm, stand a little too close and blame it on a lack of depth perception, and then fall into an "accident" that neither one of them could really control, but that both of them must've wanted very much.

Rachel was grappling with responsibility.

Either she plucked up the courage on her own and took full and total ownership of wanting to show Chloe she cared in a more-than-friends way… or she took the easy road. The road where "whoops, it was a mistake" could serve as a passable answer if nobody decided they liked where things started going when the stakes got too high. A joint meant "nothing to lose". It was all just the weed talking, or the sun setting, or the train rumbling and their feet dangling out of the boxcar that made them kiss in the twilight. It wasn't Rachel, and it wasn't Chloe, and it wasn't any kind of superpower that made either of them do anything… if anything had happened. Weed would have been Rachel's rewind.

But nothing _had_ happened. Because Chloe had pulled out the joint… offered it to Rachel… and received an uncertain response. And then she'd been too afraid to pull it back out again. Not in the house, not on the train, not as the sun was setting and their shoulders were touching in that boxcar.

Why did Chloe have to pull out a joint? Couldn't she keep mints in her pockets like any normal person might?

And Rachel knows, even though she pretends not to, why Nathan had gotten defensive earlier. She knew as soon as she had sent the message asking the terrible question. Nathan failed the responsibility test at the Vortex Club party. He failed on a cosmic level and Rachel texting him about his drug use was a complete and total magnification of it. That one question did what neither of them had ever had the license to do before: it acknowledged the source of the other person's failure, and then directly asked them to bleed for forgiveness.

She replies:

 _Please don't apologize. I shouldn't have asked._

But Nathan, always so gentle with her, says:

 _I'd rather face my mistakes in front of you than on my own._

Rachel knows he's being dramatic. It's how he gets whenever he has to talk about his past or his parents.

Rachel texts back:

 _We don't have to talk about it if you don't want._

He responds:

 _If not now, then when?_

Fuck. Chloe has made it out of the trash pile and is headed straight for Rachel. She texts Nathan hastily:

 _Tonight. I'll come over._

She doesn't have time to read his response, but she knows that it'll be an enthusiastic "yes" whether either of them likes it or not. He won't ask when. He won't ask if it's really necessary. He'll just open his window like he always does… he'll bring over the stool whenever she happens to show up… and he'll hold her hand while she climbs in off the roof, like she expects him to. He'll be a perfect gentleman. And when the sun is rising in the sky and the birds start calling out to the morning, Rachel will go. She'll climb off his bed… give back his jacket, or his blanket, or his hoodie… and she'll wait at the bottom of the stool for him to say goodnight—the stool that he never moves once she's inside because he knows it makes her feel trapped. It'll be like it always is: on _her_ terms. And for some reason, she'll leave him thinking he got the better end of the bargain, when really they both suffered the same amount for a few hours of each other.

Rachel finds herself wishing the suffering could be reciprocal with Chloe. She wishes that it wasn't just Chloe who always ended up getting hurt—that it could be shared sometimes, or even just all on Rachel to carry the crosses. Maybe that would make it fair somehow that Chloe's dad was dead and Rachel still had hers. It might make it fair that Rachel, on a constant basis, gets exactly what she wants no matter how big her request. Maybe Chloe could get what she wants sometimes, too. Rachel knows that all Chloe would want is a chance to impress the drama queen, but maybe they could grow past that. Maybe Rachel could be part of the journey for someone for once, rather than the destination.

She watches the tall, lanky ball of rage climb from the trash and burn her way across the dry, trampled earth to Rachel's hiding spot.

"Long way 'round it is," Chloe growls, ferociously scrubbing the dirt off her hoodie with even filthier palms. Rachel hides her smirk of amusement. Chloe looks more like a child having a tantrum than a badass trying to break and enter. No wonder that bouncer was a dickhead, Rachel thinks. Chloe looks like an eight-year-old playing punk dress-up.

"W-where are you going?" Rachel stammers. "Chloe?"

Rachel was worried before, but now she's in the midst of forming an acute sense of terror. If Chloe does something drastic, a faked altercation might turn into something real… and Rachel can't undo it if things get sticky.

Chloe storms off in the direction of the treeline with Rachel close behind, trying to talk sense.

"What the hell are you doing?" Rachel asks. "It's okay—we can just go back. There's gotta be another way to get her attention."

"It's not about her anymore," Chloe growls.

"Sure it is—we'll figure something else out."

Chloe doesn't answer. She's laser focused on a dumpster pushed up against a tree around the side of The Mill. If she can get it over to the wall, she might be able to climb up to that gap in the boards and squeeze through…

She doesn't think about the fact that this might fail, she just starts pushing. Rachel watches with mild amusement.

"What's this?" Rachel asks.

"A fucking plan," Chloe says, slamming her shoulder into the side of the rusty dumpster and struggling with all her might to move it.

"What are you gonna do, give him a better target for the next time he tosses you into some garbage?" Rachel asks.

"I'm gonna move it…" she grunts, heaving at the dumpster.

"Why?"

"So I can get into that stupid concert," Chloe mutters.

Rachel makes note of the hole in the side of the roof and… something else Chloe forgot to account for when concocting her brilliant scheme.

"Okay," Rachel says, shrugging and leaning against a nearby tree.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, push your dumpster," Rachel says.

"You're not gonna help me?" Chloe asks.

Rachel laughs. "No, silly. I'm gonna move that piece of wood covering the back door and I'm just gonna waltz right in."

Chloe stops.

"What?"

"You're crazy, Chloe Price. Y'know that?"

"You'd better fucking hope so," Chloe says, giving the dumpster one final shove before deciding it isn't going to move. She pulls out a thick black paint marker and scribbles a hand giving the middle finger on the dumpster's rusty side.

"Classy," Rachel remarks.

"I'm glad Her Highness approves."

Rachel makes sure the two of them are well out of sight before moving the large cover made of broken palette piece.

"Watch the nails," she tells Chloe."

"It's fine, I've had my shots, Mom," Chloe mutters, grabbing at the sloppy planks. "Ouch! Fuck!"

She wrenches her hand away from the wood, a fresh wound on her palm already dripping blood down her wrist.

"Chloe!" Rachel hisses quietly, trying not to attract attention from the bouncer. She steps around the wooden cover and reaches for Chloe's hand. "You need to be more careful, I can't just re—"

Rachel stops herself. She can't believe she almost said it out loud. All the lying, all the secrets, all the taking it back and taking it back and taking it back… for what? So she could ultimately throw the doors wide on the only truth she probably won't ever be able to prove to anyone ever again? She knows exactly what Chloe would say: "Yeah right." She'd ask why Rachel didn't take back the tree, then, if she can rewind. She'd ask why Rachel didn't take back catching James in the act, ultimately making her mother leave him. And speaking of people leaving, Chloe would ask why couldn't Rachel go far enough back to stop Chloe's dad from walking out the door and getting in that car. No. This is something Rachel needs to be more careful with, especially knowing she _can't_ take it back anymore. She quickly changes the direction of her sentence.

"—re-attach your hand if it falls off in the woods. I'm not a fucking miracle worker," Rachel says, trying to play off the hesitation.

"Well I didn't do it on purpose," Chloe mutters as Rachel examines the wound, spreading Chloe's fingers wide to see the slit in her palm.

"You need stitches, knucklehead," Rachel sighs. "Let's get this looked at before it gets any worse."

"Oh, hell no!" Chloe says. "We're going into that Mill and we're gonna do what we came here to do. I'm not gonna wuss out because I got nailed at the fucking door, princess."

"We can come back tomorrow and do the exact same thing," Rachel says pleadingly. "There's no rush…"

"We're already here—it's practically half done. All we've gotta do is get inside, stir up some trouble, and see if Unknown comes to the rescue."

"And if she doesn't?" Rachel asks.

It's more of a threat than a question. What if Unknown _doesn't_ show up and the both of them get killed? What if Unknown doesn't show up and Chloe's hand is the least of her worries? There's nothing to suggest that she _will_ show up, so why is Chloe so confident? Why is bull-headed Chloe so damn determined to make this her last night on earth?

Chloe screws up her face in a frown.

"If she doesn't show, we'll figure it out," she says.

"How confidence-inspiring…" Rachel mumbles.

"Hey, c'mon… when it was your turn at the wheel, we burnt down Arcadia Bay. Now it's my turn—how about a little trust, your highness?"

Rachel opens her mouth to protest, but realizes the gravity of Chloe's correctness. As much as she hates this, as little as she wants to believe this has any potential to go well… who knows? It just might. Maybe this one leap of faith is the only thing standing between Rachel, Chloe, and the answers they need to escape something they don't fully understand the danger behind. Looking into Chloe's big blue eyes, filled with hope and buzzing with energy… she can't say no to a face like that. She can say anything she wants to anyone in the world and mean it as strongly as she sounds like she might, but with Chloe, Rachel feels absolutely helpless: completely and immeasurably swept up in a look she can't bear to really feel or begin to reciprocate. Rachel looks back at Chloe, unable to say what she really wants to say.

Rachel lets out a sigh of resignation.

"Okay," she says.

A smile crosses Chloe's face. "Okay?"

"Okay… _but_ …" Rachel continues, "If we're gonna do this your way, we're gonna do safety _my_ way."

Rachel lifts her hoodie and grabs the hem of her tank top, ripping a strip from it to wrap around Chloe's hand.

"You're gonna put your dirty shirt on me?" Chloe says, scrunching up her nose.

"You think I'm dirty?"

Chloe shrugs, letting the Drama Queen's deft fingers tie a snug knot in the ends of the shirt strip. "Maybe I do."

"Or maybe you just want me to be," Rachel mutters.

Chloe's eyes widen. "What?"

"I didn't say anything," Rachel says quickly.

"Did you just—?"

"Nope. Look, all done! Let's get this thing outta the way and get inside."

Rachel hates the smug little smirk on Chloe's face as she repositions herself against the wooden cover. Now would be a _great_ time to rewind. A _fantastic_ time. Rachel knows she isn't immune to Chloe's charm, that's what makes this so difficult. She has to get the job done, but she has to keep her secrets, her lies, and her missteps in mind (and remember what she's keeping from whom), she has to try not to get too sucked in to Chloe Price, because getting sucked in means putting Chloe in danger, and on top of being a model friend, exemplary daughter (which she's already managed to screw up), and all-around well-adjusted only child of Arcadia Bay's DA, she has to balance her homework with the end of the world. Or just the end of the town. It's hard to say. There's only so much mess one can manage on a good day, and Rachel finds herself admitting that this is _not_ a good day. Sure, she's spent it with Chloe, and that was amazing, but that's not all. There have been warm little pockets of time in today's overall pie chart, but there have been hard things, too. There's been Nathan, for starters, and there's more Nathan she'll have to face later. There was that incident with the coat rack, whatever that was, and then the joint, which Chloe had been too shy to bring back out again on the way to the Mill. There was that awkward train ride, the fumble through the woods, Chloe getting tossed into the garbage, and then this… the nail. Today has been an absolute mess when the final tally adds up. Yes, there was that brief moment of Chloe looking lovely in the fading sunlight, and there was that time their shoulders touched on the train… but then there was the bouncer, that shambly conglomeration of boards, and the stupid nail. Warm fuzzies, but also rusty nails. Today has been a minute-rice bag of every feeling life has to offer, and Rachel decides she wants to think of it as its fuzzy parts.

Okay, maybe not just that. It's so hard to separate out all the other crap. So maybe life can be warm and soft and cozy at times, and not be spoiled in entirety by the rot. It can be fuzzy, sure, but with nails.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N:** I don't normally like to butt in on the story, but I really want to tell you all how grateful I am for having you along on this journey so far. Thank you for reading and giving feedback—it's been a blast creating for such a supportive community! Thanks to everyone who has commented, followed, favorited, or just stopped by to take a peek. Your patience and love have really made this all happen, so I wanted to make sure you all know how much I appreciate you! As always, your questions and comments are super helpful, and I look forward to many more chapters!

* * *

 **Pull**

Chloe's heart starts racing the moment the back door to the Mill swings shut behind her. Part of it is the music thundering through the floorboards, and the other part, well… Rachel Amber has her hand on Chloe's arm. It's not a guiding grip, it's a protective one. Rachel had gone first through the door to the Mill... and _then_ grabbed Chloe's arm, pulling her close to keep her separate from the grimy-looking storage room. It becomes clear immediately why the back door is off limits: stacks of rotting wooden palettes lean against the walls, nails protruding from them at odd angles, broken shards of glass scatter the floor, and empty dog crates are stacked in three cobwebbed corners. A skinny bouncer in a torn wife beater slumps, passed out, in a chair facing the door. Rachel takes one look at the scene and quickly leads Chloe to the thick red curtain over the interior doorway, pushing it aside to reveal the hallway leading to the front vestibule. A dense cloud of sweat vapor and cigarette smoke hangs around their heads, only made visible by the pulsing beams of light that come from seemingly everywhere in the building—even in the more subdued areas of the Mill away from the stage. The rafters shake so hard in places that nails come loose and fall into the straw piles in the corners where a few people appear to have passed out with assorted liquor bottles in their hands.

Rachel holds Chloe's arm tighter.

"I wanna go get us drinks!" Chloe shouts.

"What?" Rachel yells back.

"Drinks!" Chloe says, miming it.

"Are you crazy?! We can't get drunk here!"

Chloe pretends she can't hear and shrugs, trying to get around the princess and over to the plywood bar surrounded by dart boards and empty beer bottles.

"Chloe, don't!" Rachel yells. "It's dangerous!"

"That's why we're here, princess," Chloe chuckles, carefully unwrapping Rachel's fingers from her wrist and letting the drama queen's hand fall away. Chloe doesn't want to do that. She wants to stay put and let the princess, all five feet and five inches of her, try to act tough in a situation where she clearly feels like she's crumbling. Chloe can't help but find it odd that Rachel is so uncomfortable here in the very scene where they met. Well… Chloe is pretty sure this is where they "officially" met. They've spent two years going to Blackhell together, it's impossible that their paths never crossed before the night Chloe got roughed up by those thugs and Rachel saved her. Rachel stood up to those assholes, no questions asked, and when the girls finally made it outside, it was Rachel who was laughing about it, not Chloe. Rachel hadn't been scared then. She had been light and carefree, as if nothing had a real consequence or carried any weight at all. This Rachel here tonight is almost someone else entirely. This is "I don't wanna lose you in the crowd" Rachel who would never have stopped those thugs from trying to take out Chloe's teeth one by one with a pair of pliers.

She hates to admit it, but now Chloe is worried, too. Why is resident badass, Rachel Amber, suddenly afraid of the dark? And more importantly, why does the mysterious princess know Frank? Rather… why does Frank know Rachel Amber? She had been too preoccupied until now to really think about it, but it occurs to her that he never did answer her question: _And why is Rachel Amber your business?_

Come to think of it, Frank was here the last time Chloe was here. He wouldn't sell her any weed, which was totally uncool of him… but maybe that had something to do with Rachel also being there. Maybe he's her weird grandpa and he doesn't want the drama queen seeing him do sketchy shit. Wait… Chloe shakes the thought from her head. He lives in a drug van, idiot. Anyone within a fifty foot radius of him can practically smell the synthetic wooden paneling and six-inch-wide countertops. If Rachel doesn't know better than to hang out with skeeve-holes like Frank, maybe Chloe should know better than to hang out with little miss sunshine… about whom she knows practically nothing.

Chloe inventories her Rachel Amber knowledge as she pushes past sweaty metal-heads. Thing 1: Rachel likes heavy metal. Well, Chloe thinks it's safe to assume so, anyway, based on how they met. But then again… maybe not. Based on the lack of CD collection in Rachel's room, maybe she doesn't like any music at all. It's not a totally analog world, though. Maybe Rachel's music is totally digital and she keeps it on her MP3 player… which Chloe isn't sure Rachel has. Okay, scratch Thing 1. New Thing 1: Rachel is a Leo. Kind of a cop-out, but it's something, right? Chloe knows for certain that Rachel's birthday is July 22, 1994. But… based on the star charts in Rachel's room, that's on the cusp between the crab thingy and Leo. So Rachel isn't technically just a Leo, right? Fine, scratch New Thing 1. This is harder than it initially seemed. Alright, New-New Thing 1: Rachel goes to Blackwell. There. Fact. Easy enough… but also sort of a given. Chloe will take what she can get, though. Thing 2: Rachel is the DA's daughter. Chloe isn't about to do any DNA testing here, but it seems safe enough to say that Rose and James are Rachel's parents. They showed up to that meeting with Wells, so… boom. Parents. Thing 3: Rachel likes drama. Sorry, not just drama. Rachel is interested in theatre. Okay… maybe drama outside of that, too. Either way, Part 2 of Thing 3 is that Rachel is a very talented actress… in every aspect of her life, including whatever she's doing here at the Mill. And also whatever she may or may not be doing with Frank…

Thing 4: Rachel is somehow connected to Frank Bowers. Chloe isn't sure she can count that, but there's no other way Frank would take such an interest in her grades and social goings-on… unless of course it's about more than just her grades and goings-on. Chloe scratches Thing 4. She can't say anything about it for certain. Rachel is fifteen and Frank is… like… she doesn't know, forty? Their paths should never cross in the normal world unless it's because of drugs, and Chloe watched Rachel break a sweat over a joint. There's no way that girl does drugs… though she hangs out with those Vortex assholes enough, so she might. Chloe knows for a fact that Nathan Prescott buys drugs from Frank, so that could be the connection. Maybe Nathan bellyaches about Rachel to forty-year-old Frank while picking up his happy pills. Chloe has seen the pictures in Rachel's room, and it's no secret she hangs out with Nathan more than Chloe thinks any person ever should. _Any_ amount is too much, but it's hard to hold bad company against little miss sunshine. After all, the princess' attraction to dangerous and otherwise-deadbeat individuals led her straight to Chloe… and doesn't that count for something? It doesn't count enough to be considered Thing 4 in any official capacity, but maybe someday it'll be Thing 1. Chloe can't say for sure, but she _can_ say that Rachel's association with Nathan Prescott can count as Thing 4. Clearly they're friends. Well… friendly.

Maybe she _doesn't_ know as much as she thinks. She thought this exercise would make her feel better, not worse. If anything it's digging up more questions where it should have given answers. Chloe has to admit that maybe ninety percent of Rachel's allure is her mystery and the fact that _there are no definite facts_. She says she's from Long Beach, but that's not really something you can prove. She talked about breaking her arm on the train, but there aren't any scars. Short of seeing an x-ray, Chloe would never know the difference. She says she cares about Chloe "in some capacity" but that could mean basically anything. She might care about Chloe in the existential "it would suck if you died because you're one of God's creatures" sort of way, but Chloe doesn't think Rachel is religious. She has no idea where she stands on religion, politics, morality—any of that crap that older people care about. Rachel is a good student, sure… but is she a good person? Is _Chloe_ a good person by her own standards? God, maybe she's thinking too far into this. She decides to go simpler.

Thing 5 could be Rachel's grades—all honors, all A's. "A" is for Amber, that's for sure. Though… that kind of goes hand-in-hand with her attendance at Blackwell… maybe she shouldn't count it. She decides that if she can't think of more things, it'll count on its own. New Thing 5: Rachel is a badass. Not tonight, but… normally. Jesus, what kind of fact is that? "She is, but she isn't." Maybe it's more like "She is, but she isn't always." Chloe likes that better. She likes thinking that Rachel Amber, despite knowing nothing about the girl about to be pummeled by a group of low-lifes, would step in and hero it up. But the first conversation on the walk home didn't feel like Rachel meeting Chloe for the first time. It felt like they'd met before. Blackhell is a fairly large school, so maybe they _had_ met… but Chloe remembers feeling something else. She remembers feeling like there was a secret between them. While that could be the fact that they had both snuck into a dangerous concert underage, Chloe doesn't think so. Something else felt present between them, and they talked like they had met before—it was so easy.

Chloe looks over her shoulder at Rachel, who is buried in her phone, and wants to see something different when she looks at the drama queen. She doesn't want to admit it, but Chloe wants to see a Rachel Amber who exists beyond the shadow of a doubt. She wants to see a Rachel Amber she knows and trusts without question, follows upon instinct, and would never hesitate to tell the truth to: someone with _both_ of their best interests in mind. Like it or not, this is not that Rachel.

Still, there is a magnetism that Chloe can't avoid. She wants to be here for Rachel. She wants to impress Rachel. She wants to do something stupid and have Rachel back her up, even if that means picking a fight she knows they won't win at the Mill.

Chloe finally makes her way through the last of the crowd in the vestibule to where the bartender is trying to wipe broken glass off the floor in front of the bar. While he's crouched down and occupied, Chloe skirts around him, hanging just at the corner of the bar where she can reach some of the assorted beer bottles that have yet to be stocked in the refrigerator.

Hmm… to steal, or not to steal? That is the question.

Chloe chuckles to herself. Of _course_ she's gonna steal.

She grabs two bottles at random and stuffs them rather unsuccessfully into her hoodie, the very visible shapes of them protruding and making it rather obvious that she stole. Luckily, no one is really looking. It occurs to her that she really didn't need to put them under her shirt at all, but she's made it this far—no need to turn back on a brilliant heist now.

Meanwhile, across the room Rachel sends an urgent text to Frank:  
 _You need to get down here. Now._

His response is startlingly immediate, and she can hear the malice in his tone without having to stretch her imagination too far:  
 _Ur gona hav lil more specific_

Rachel raises her eyebrows higher than she thought she could. Is he serious? How much dope has he actually smoked today? Certainly he doesn't know who he's talking to. More specific? Oh, no. Rachel _could_ go into specifics with Frank. She could remind him of the specifics of their arrangement and the very _specific nature_ of certain promises he made in order to keep _specific things_ out of _specific hands_. But no. She won't. That's an argument for another day, and she needs to protect Chloe _now_. Besides, maybe he'll come to his senses by the time he gets here… at least enough to not ask Rachel Amber, of all people, to be a little more specific.

 _And you're going to have to be a little more sober when you show up,_ Rachel types back quickly. He better hope his next text is either polite, or repentant… and with any luck, it'll be both.

 _OMW_ , he responds.

Rachel stuffs her phone back into her pocket. She supposes she'll have to settle for cooperative. She's more than certain she can work an apology out of him later. She's notoriously good at working a lot of things out of Frank…

"Hey, I got us beer!" Chloe shouts over the noise.

"You what?" Rachel yells back.

"BEER!" Chloe says, pulling the bottles out of her sweatshirt.

Rachel wants to laugh. Watching Chloe pull clearly-stolen contraband out of an oversized hoodie has got to be one of the most priceless sights of the evening. Chloe plops a warm beer into Rachel's hand and clinks the other bottle against it.

"Cheers!" Chloe says.

She tries to twist off the cap clumsily.

"Chloe, that's not a twist off," Rachel yells over the noise. "It's—"

Chloe manages to rip the lid free of the bottle.

"It's what?" Chloe shouts back.

"Nevermind…" Rachel mimes.

Chloe yanks the lid off Rachel's beer and hands it back.

Rachel blinks down at it for a minute, deciding if she should ask how it's possible, but chooses not to start a lengthy conversation in a series of shouts and "WHAT?" back and forth until one of them gives up.

"I think we should head to the stage!" Chloe yells, gesturing widely to the entryway packed with people banging their heads to the thunderous reverberations of the band.

"There's no room!" Rachel shouts back. "Upstairs!"

Lame… but Chloe supposes upstairs will suffice. She nods, trying to act like she's not bummed out, and lets Rachel take her hand. As the two walk towards the rickety wooden stairs that are famously proclaimed by staff members to be "rotten through" and "unsafe to walk on", Chloe catches sight of someone leaning against a nearby support beam with his arms crossed. He watches the girls ascend the stairs.

Chloe knows that there is no way in hell she would be able to hear him from this far away, and yet his voice is loud and clear:

"This isn't going to end well," William says, his tone more somber than Chloe can ever remember it being. "You're gonna die in here… and she knows it."

Chloe blinks hard to try and make William disappear, but he doesn't. He just stands there, scowling at the girls until they disappear behind the door to the mezzanine.

The upstairs floor smells like wet, rotting wood, and some crucial beams seem to be missing, but Rachel makes her way across the rickety paneling with a practiced ease. Chloe lags behind a bit, taking a slightly different path to where it looks like the light from downstairs is pouring directly through the floor. She wonders if this is where the drama queen has spent most of her time during concerts at the Mill to avoid the prying eyes of anyone who might out her as something other than an of-age patron.

"Why are we up here?" Chloe asks, realizing too late that she doesn't have to yell quite so loud to be heard from all the way up here.

"Because we're not supposed to be," Rachel says.

"So what's our move?" Chloe asks.

Rachel moseys over to where the broken floorboards stop and thin air begins. A giant hole in the mezzanine shows the flashing lights and thrashing patrons below. Chloe swallows hard. Something makes her not want to look down. It isn't the jaggedness of the boards, and it certainly isn't the distance of the drop… it's more the fact that there used to be wood there, and now there isn't any. It's just a void—a gaping hole in the floor… in the earth. A hole like the one in Chloe's knowledge about Rachel… the girl who _used_ to seem like a lot of things, but doesn't anymore. It's like she's gone now—that Rachel has faded or died in some other way, and now seems totally oblivious to the danger this giant hole presents... the gaping, rotting hole like the one her Dad is in now… a William-shaped hole to match the one in Chloe.

Looking down, Chloe hears William telling her she's going to die up here, and Rachel knows it. If someone were to give her a push, she might land right in the gap between that guy with the green lizard tattoo across his bald head, and that lady who seems to have dyed her armpit hair pink. The more she watches the show downstairs, she less she feels like it's a joyous event. Based on the looks of everyone in that crowd, they seem to all be embedded in their own type of pain—some of it internal, some of them bleeding from the lip or a poorly-placed nose ring that got knocked around by a nearby slippery elbow... Not even saliva will pass the hard lump in her throat as she bears solemn witness to the writhing below. Everyone down there is completely trapped in one way or another. She watches them fight to dance or leave as the music pulses, but no one really moves, they just wriggle in place until they give up and are carried outside the view of Chloe's jagged window by the motion of the crowd. How can anyone down there even breathe with the edges of this hole keeping them captive?

"We could wait," Rachel says, crossing her arms and peering down through the hole. It's like she doesn't even see what's down there.

William calls to Chloe from the darkness, and as he speaks she can see his face appearing near one of the beams at the edge of the hole: "You _could_ wait, couldn't you…" he says, a strange smile twisting across his lips. She really could. She could stand here and wait for trouble to come knocking—possibly in the form of a bouncer or some kind of security guard pretending to be interested in the "safety" of the drunken idiots who might just happen to "wander off" to the mezzanine. She could stand here for as long as it takes, let Rachel put those slender little fingers back around her wrist, and they could wait like that for as long as it might take.

Or… maybe something else. _Or_ … she could stir up some genuine trouble—something she might actually need saving from. This hole is awfully big, she thinks to herself… and that fall is awfully far. But yes, she could just stand here. She could certainly just stand here and wait.

She hears William whisper again from the dark: "Or…"

His voice mingles with Chloe's as the two of them speak in perfect unison: "Or we could jump."

"What?!" Rachel says, her expression of mischief fading into one of worry. Her arms fall back to her sides. "Chloe, no…"

"Chloe, yes…" whispers William from the darkness. Chloe can see the spotlights from below casting dark shadows into the recesses of his face… into the rippled flesh burned away in the fire. She looks down into the red and orange lights flooding the crowd beneath the floorboards. It's like everyone down there is ablaze, consumed, writhing… frightened.

"Look at them, kiddo," William hisses from across the hole. "You see it, too… don't you? Life is more of a hell for them than anything that might come afterwards… same as it is for you."

"It's not, though…" Chloe murmurs.

"What did you say?" Rachel asks, panic beginning to rise in her voice. Is Chloe serious? The music is still too loud, she can't quite hear…

"Nothing!" Chloe calls back.

William lets out a deep chuckle. "Nothing," he says. "That's right. You found your worth, sweetheart."

"My…?" Chloe trails off.

"Your purpose… your _worth_. Your life is a mess, Chloe. You got kicked out of school, your Mom's moved on without you, you're clinging to the frail hope that one day this Rachel person might love you back—which she can't, by the way, you're fundamentally unlovable—and… sweetheart… all you really want is to be with me, so… come on over. The water's fine."

He extends his arms like he might give her a hug, and she wants very desperately for that to be real. The sound starts to slip away and fade into a dull throbbing… almost like a heartbeat… and Chloe's eyes begin to fill with tears. She looks straight across the hole in the floor—straight at William, his arms outstretched, his face suddenly warm and kind… and whole—and she wants so badly to just take a few more steps and be back to her thirteen-year-old self again.

 _"_ _That's another dollar for the swear jar!"_

 _She can hear the kitchen sink running… pancakes sizzling in melted butter on the stove…_

"Chloe, stop!" Rachel cries out, but her voice is muffled. Chloe turns to look, but she doesn't see Rachel Amber. It's twelve-year-old Max with a Barbie doll strapped to a firecracker.

 _"_ _Are you sure this is okay?" Max asks, holding the doll close to her chest and staring down at it with her eyebrows creased together in a worried frown._

 _"_ _It's fine, Max. Don't sweat it," Chloe says._

 _She hears a pancake flip._

 _Another sizzle as the fresh batter hits the pan._

"Chloe, who's Max?" Rachel asks, slowly making her way around the hole in the floor to where Chloe is teetering dangerously close to the edge. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. This had better be fucking Frank saying he's standing at the bottom of this thing with his arms open.

Rachel reaches into her pocket with one hand, the other one reaching for Chloe.

 _LET HER JUMP._

Rachel's eyes grow wide in horror as she looks down at the message from Unknown. Is she serious? Let Chloe _jump?!_ Is that even an option here?

Chloe hears her father's voice from a long way away: _Now where did I put my keys?_

 _She's standing in her living room again watching William root through the pile of magazines on the kitchen counter._

 _"_ _They're not over here…"_

 _William starts digging through the cushions of the couch._

Rachel is horrified. What if Chloe _does_ jump? Or worse, what if that blank expression and vacant stare means she's about to pass out…? What if she falls? What will she land on— _who_ will she land on? How far do you have to fall for your neck to snap… and at what angle?

No, Rachel has to get Chloe out of here. She's worried that touching her will shock her out of it and she'll fall. If she could just _rewind_ this… take a few steps back. If she could just get Chloe to take a few steps back, everything might be okay. She screws up her face in a concentrated frown, takes a deep breath… and reaches back through time.

Nothing happens at first. She can hear the blood going to her ears, feel the molasses-slow moment bubbling up from the murky past… she tugs at it like she's pulling a truck out of a tar pit. Why won't it _budge_?! Come on, Rachel—think! Remember that moment… go _back_ to that moment. Take all of this with you, and _don't_ take the stairs. Don't come up here. Don't even look up here. Pull, Rachel. _Pull_.

She feels the familiar trickle of blood running from her nose, and Chloe stands there frozen. A rush of relief washes over Rachel. She can take her away from the ledge now. But the second she lets her concentration slip enough to move her feet, time starts moving again. She pushes back hard. _No!_ She takes slow, deliberate steps towards Chloe, both arms firmly planted in the air between them. She can feel every fiber of her being starting to pulse with resistance. Something doesn't want her here in this frozen moment before impact. Something needs Chloe to jump. Rachel plows forward. The room starts to flicker with an otherworldly static. Everything goes a little gray… the grains of the surrounding wood seem to stand on end and ripple away from the beams… the smell of rotting boards grows more acrid and weighs down the buzzing air in the room.

And then… almost as if it weren't there at all, from the corner of her eye, Rachel spots it: a face peeking out of the shadows… arms stretching out for Chloe. It's only a half-formed figure, as far as Rachel can tell. It's sort of translucent and has the properties of something not entirely of this realm. It's too faint to look at squarely, so Rachel keeps her gaze centered on Chloe. Rachel watches from the corner of her eye in horror as the figure slowly starts to move. A glance around the room proves that nothing else has sped back up again—Chloe is still frozen. What is _happening_ here? Four little nubs begin to protrude from the ghostly face, elongating as if they were thick beads of syrup dripping from a bottle at an odd angle… straight towards Chloe. Four beads become five, then Rachel realizes… a _hand_. A thin, translucent hand extends its way past the face, making room for an arm, then pushing off the first figure's chest to reveal a shoulder… then a neck… then wisps of hair that float in a slow breeze Rachel can't source out. When the new figure's face finally appears, it looks weather-worn and old, but as it emerges from the other husk, it transforms. The wrinkles smooth into tight skin again, the hair fills out the head, cropping just above the shoulders. What was once a loose-fitting jacket is now filled out by flesh and muscle. Rachel is too mesmerized by the creature to act. What is it doing? Why is it reaching for Chloe?

Rachel's hand finally gets close enough to grab a handfull of Chloe's shirt. She closes her fist tightly. It's time to pull as hard as she possibly can. There's absolutely only going to be one shot at this, and with all her might, Rachel is going to take it. The figure across the pit is almost fully emerged, having slowly birthed itself from a now stationary figure crouching in the shadows. Rachel has no interest in finding out what the hell that is… it's time to go. It's time to pull. She focuses hard on the point of contact between her hand and Chloe's shirt… and she pulls.


	21. Chapter 21

**Back**

A voice calls urgently to Rachel from the swirling black:

"Get up, Rachel… c'mon, you've gotta get up…"

Up? Why does she have to get up? When did she get down?

The voice calls again:

"Come _on!_ I can't do it by myself—you have to get UP!"

It occurs to Rachel that she can't feel where she is in space. Does she even have a body anymore? Did she ever have one?

"Where… am I?" Rachel asks, but her voice is muffled. She can barely hear the words coming out of her own mouth. Maybe she's not even actually speaking—she can't feel whether or not she's opening her mouth wide enough. In fact, her mouth… it must be closed because it tastes… ew. Is that… blood? Does she taste blood?

"We don't have _time_ , Rachel! _Please! Get up!_ "

Rachel suddenly becomes aware of a sharp pain in her leg. She can't move anything, her body feels like it's made of thick sheets of burlap soaked in tar and piled in some dark corner of the world. She wants to move, she really does… but her limbs refuse to spring to life. She fights hard against her eyelids, but they won't budge—all she can smell is the think scent of smoke and charred metal.

She feels the dull movement of a set of hands shaking her, and the voice calling yet again:

"I know it's hard, but you have to shake it off. I can't go until _you_ go!"

Rachel recognizes that voice. It's not one she's heard often… maybe not even more than once… but she's definitely heard it, and it definitely belongs to someone who is very, very afraid. She pushes against the darkness, trying hard to open her eyes again.

Everything starts coming back in a rush: the Mill, the mezzanine, the hole… oh God… the hole. Rachel remembers Chloe walking to the edge— _Chloe!_

Her eyes snap open.

"Oh thank _fuck!_ " the voice sighs with relief. A face swims into view, and Rachel can start to make out some of the soft features as her eyes adjust to the brightness. A slender nose, bright blue eyes full of concern, a bottom lip captured between a set of teeth covered in… is that blood? Blood from her nose…

"I don't wanna rush you, but we really can't stay here," she says, her short brown hair falling into her eyes from a breeze. Stray bits of ash float between them as Rachel tries to figure out who the hell this person is. Last time she checked, she was in the Mill with—

"Chloe…" Rachel manages to say, and she hopes this time she's actually said it.

"Chloe's fine," the girl says. "She's unconscious, but she's fine. I need you to get up so we can leave."

"Leave where?" Rachel mumbles, groggily trying to lean up onto her elbows.

"I know you have a lot of questions, but there's no time."

"Time?" Rachel wants to laugh. She wants to tell this figure that's impossible—she _controls_ time. But then she remembers the face… that shadow in the darkness reaching for Chloe, and then a hand… no, a _person_ coming out of that sad, ghostly man.

"Yeah, _time_. It's _time_ to go. Take my hand, we have to get back to the Mill," the girl says.

Rachel manages to prop herself up on her left elbow and look around blearily. Back to the Mill from _where_? But as she looks to her right, she can see the twisted metal of an old wall decoration, the broken backer for a neon sign… there are thick wooden beams everywhere… and the remains of a lighting tree that once shone on the stage…

"This _is_ the Mill…" Rachel manages to say.

"Okay, then _your_ Mill. Present day Mill. Whatever, we don't have time for the semantics of it, let's just get back to where we came from, okay? Now get up, princess."

"Princess?" Rachel asks. There's only one person who's allowed to call Rachel "princess", and that's Chloe Price.

She can feel the frustration growing in the stranger's tone. "Yep, and you sure are acting the part. C'mon. Up y'get."

Rachel feels a pull unlike any other. Her limbs are all pins and needles and the very touch of this strange girl sends a shock through her that makes her want to cry out in pain. She sucks in air hard between gritted teeth.

"Shit—sorry! I know it sucks to be touched right away, are you alright?" the girl asks.

"I feel awful," Rachel says, rubbing her head with the heel of her hand. "Like I got hit by a truck or something…"

"You sort of got hit by a building…" the girl says.

Rachel looks down at the remainder of her left pant leg. Blood oozes thickly from a series of gashes on her shin.

"We can fix that—it'll go away when we go back, but we have to go _now_ ," the girl says, holding out her hand.

Rachel scans the floor for Chloe. She notices the unconscious delinquent propped up against a supporting beam behind the strange girl, a bit dirty, but otherwise seemingly unharmed. Rachel's legs feel like sticks of soft butter as she tries to stand steadily on them. She can feel the ever-present urge to sink back into the floor and lay there. Despite the difficulty of the motions, she makes several clumsy steps towards Chloe and is promptly toppled by the weight of her own body. Her knees hit the exposed concrete foundation first, then her palms, scraping through the rubble and sending ash floating through the air.

"Why are you so stubborn?! I'm literally trying to save you!" the girl calls, scooping up Rachel's stinging hands and tugging her upright.

"Who _are_ you?" Rachel asks, snatching back her hands.

The girl cracks a pitying grin and puts her hands on her hips. "Are you seriously asking that question? After all this time, you don't know who I am?"

Rachel looks over at Chloe. After all this time, Rachel doesn't feel like she knows _anything_. She doesn't know why she picked Chloe—why her heart picked Chloe—and why every moment of their being together has led to more and more chaos and torment. After all this time of knowing Chloe, of unknowing Chloe, of knowing Chloe again, Rachel doesn't have a clue where to begin with _any_ of this, let alone the unknown girl.

Hang on.

Rachel's eyes go wide.

The girl lets out a chuckle. "Nice to finally meet you," she says, stepping towards Chloe. "Now how about we get a move on and un-make this mess?"

Rachel is suddenly furious.

"Are you kidding me?" Rachel says. "You told me to let Chloe jump… and now we're supposed to go with you?"

"I told you to let Chloe jump because I needed a way in," Unknown says. "And I wouldn't actually let her jump… it was just the _emotion_ of it that I needed to break through time without you."

Rachel's head throbs painfully and her thoughts swim rapidly around in her brain. Break through time? How can anyone break through time? The vision of that hand crawling through the unidentified ghostly face gives Rachel a chill.

"But it's not hard to see that your little temper tantrum 'power trip' had… mixed results," Unknown sighs. "We're so far in the future that I don't even have a fucking watch for this one."

Unknown pushes up the sleeve of her leather jacket to reveal a series of watches all ticking off different hours.

"This is the future?" Rachel asks.

"For an honor student, you aren't very bright… has anyone told you that?" Unknown says as she grabs Chloe around the middle and tries to hoist her into some kind of supported position.

"I've been feeling a little sluggish since that _building_ fell on me," Rachel sneers. "How about you start with where we're going."

"It's _when_ , Rachel. _When_ we're going," Unknown says as if she's bored by her own answer. "And we're going back to exactly where we came from."

"And how are you gonna get us there?" Rachel asks.

"I, uh… well it's kind of embarrassing, actually. It's a little hard to explain, but basically we both have to use the rewind…"

" _My_ rewind?" Rachel hisses, lowering her voice and flashing her gaze to Chloe to make sure she's not awake and listening. "How do you know about that?"

"We're literally standing in the future… do you wanna talk about how I know that, or do you wanna get us all back to safety before one or two of us blink out of existence?"

"If I help you, will you explain it?" Rachel asks.

"I'll tell you anything you wanna know," Unknown says, gesturing for Rachel to come closer.

"Fine—but what about Chloe?" Rachel asks.

"It's my plan to keep her safe," Unknown says.

"I can keep her safe too, y'know," Rachel says, feeling suddenly defensive.

"Yup…" Unknown says, gesturing to the burnt remains of the Mill. "I can see that."

"I think we can agree this is your fault too," Rachel says.

"I don't think we can…" Unknown tells her. "If we gathered up the facts throughout all of time and space, which I may or may not have already done, the weight of the 'your-faultness' would literally crush you."

"Which would destroy Chloe," Rachel says. "And that goes completely against keeping her safe."

"So I guess we'd better bury our shame in a tangly lie-web instead, and not-so-cleverly disguise it as a burgeoning relationship—wait, I'm sorry… 'superpower' was it?"

"You're a monster," Rachel mutters.

"And you're a liar," Unknown says. "So I guess we've both got shit to atone for."

"At least I care about Chloe enough not to try and get her killed."

"But not enough to keep her from getting kicked out of school," Unknown spits.

"Is that really what you think I was trying to do?" Rachel asks. "I just wanted to spend time with her—like for real, not just some half-assed afternoon that got rewound at the end. And then… everything got so messed up so fast, and I—"

Rachel stops herself. She knows that Unknown was the one who wanted her to take the blame instead of Chloe. It seems they both knew that Rachel would be let off easy if she took responsibility—and really, Rachel had known that from the beginning. Honestly, though… she just didn't think she'd get caught. But then the tree had happened, and the fire… and every fucked up moment since then has started burying Rachel deeper and deeper in the pit of her own dishonesty. Every calculating move so far has been curated to avoid the embarrassing truth, and now that she's faced with her web, she doesn't know what's fabricated and what's not.

"Do you really think I want her to love me because of a lie?" Rachel asks.

Unknown frowns at first, and then realizes what the question means. An incredulous look breaks across her face, which she quickly tamps back down into a blank expression.

"Listen, Rachel… there's a lot of universes—a lot of timelines that I've explored. I have yet to see one where the two of you are together. And whether or not I want to, I know how it ends."

"I don't believe you," Rachel says.

"You don't have to," Unknown says, her voice suddenly gentler than she maybe intends.

Rachel grapples with the weight of that statement and how little thought she's actually given to the possibility of _not_ being with Chloe. It's hard for her to hear that there isn't even a chance—even _with_ time travel. In every universe, Chloe must be faced with a choice… and in every universe, Chloe must be choosing something or someone else.

"No wonder the future doesn't look like much..." Rachel says quietly, picking up a handful of ash and letting it slip through the gaps in her fingers.

"Not if we don't get out of here," Unknown says.

Rachel sighs heavily. She doesn't want to, but she takes slow, deliberate steps, trying to be mindful of her butterstick legs and how badly the left one hurts. Jitters shoot through her spine as she goes—she feels like she might vomit. No, she's _definitely_ going to vomit. Saliva starts gathering in her mouth and she drops to her knees, heaving up bile and Joyce's breakfast food.

"Jesus Christ," Unknown mutters, climbing through the rubble to help Rachel up. "The future really doesn't agree with you, does it…"

Unknown uses the hem of her shirt to wipe Rachel's chin and hoists her back to her feet.

"Come on, princess," Unknown says. "We're doing this for Chloe."

The burnt remains of the Mill smoke and swirl around Rachel, her eyes can't focus on anything at all. She can't concentrate enough to make her feet move along the ground, and she can't push Unknown off and crumple back into the floorboards. She needs to lay down or she'll throw up again—she can feel it rising in her throat.

Unknown dumps Rachel next to Chloe's unconscious form and puts a grimy hand on each of them.

"When I count to three, I need you to pull," Unknown says. "Don't think of a direction—I'm gonna drive. Just hit the gas and we'll be home before you know it."

"I can't, I'm gonna—"

"Rachel Fucking Amber, if you throw up on me, I'm gonna kill you," Unknown hisses through her teeth, pressing her hand over Rachel's mouth.

Rachel glares up at Unknown, suddenly forgetting her dizziness as it is replaced by rage. Why is Unknown such an absolute _asshole_? For someone who spent a significant amount of time trying to save Rachel and Chloe, she certainly hasn't made the best first impression.

"Oh, you're angry?" Unknown says, her voice thick with condescension. "Good. Use it. Let's go, princess. One… two… three."

Rachel doesn't want to pull, but she pulls anyway. She's not doing it for this beastly girl, she reminds herself—she's doing it for Chloe. She's taking Chloe home the minute they get back to the in-tact Mill, she tells herself, and this Unknown person is _not_ going with them. She can stay in the future and rot for all Rachel cares—the future where Rachel and Chloe are never together… and are never happy.

So, regardless of the passengers, Rachel pulls. She doesn't do it for Unknown, she does it for Chloe and the look on her face when the two of them met "for the first time" in the Mill. She does it for the awkward kiss in her bedroom… for the time they held hands on the stairs. She does it for the train rides, the stage makeup over a bruise, and the "nice Rachel we're having"... when it wasn't nice Rachel at all. She does it for the possibility of a universe where the two of them have more than a superpower.

Rachel starts to feel the familiar tug of being ripped back into another time. She feels her stomach clench, her muscles tense, and the air around her convert to energy and static. Unknown's face screws up in a concentrated frown as Rachel tugs hard at the past, remembering that first night with Chloe and how they laughed under the stars the whole way home.

"Blondie, what are you _doing?!_ " Unknown growls through her teeth. "I'm driving, remember?"

"The fuck you are," Rachel spits back.

And the minute Rachel realizes she's in control of her powers again, a smirk crosses her face… and the trio vanishes from the spot, leaving only the ash and blistered metal to mingle.

* * *

Rachel hears the cawing of seagulls long before the scene swims into view. She can hear the clatter of dishes, the frying of hashbrowns, and the quiet chatter of townspeople enjoying a slow, leisurely breakfast at the Two Whales Diner. It's hard for her to remember why she was looking out the window for so long back then, but the longer she looks, the less she feels like she wants to.

How did she get here? Where's Unknown? Her powers have always taken her back in _time_ , not back in _place_. She always winds up exactly where she stood when she jumped backwards, never in the location of a past event…

She is forced to notice a dull ache in the back of her head, and is suddenly grateful for the fact that she doesn't feel like she wants to hurl anymore. Her leg feels in tact, her mouth doesn't taste like blood…

Rachel is wrenched back to the table by Joyce's timely coffee pour.

"You look exhausted," Joyce says. "Don't tell me you two were up all night…"

Oh no… Rachel remembers this moment. This is right after Chloe spent the night in the junkyard after the play. Rachel remembers lying to Joyce about her mom going on a trip, and how horrible she felt dragging Chloe into that. It sounded lovely, sure… but it wasn't true, and it was a lame way to escape something that didn't need escaping. Joyce wasn't really asking questions.

"Rachel, your nose…" Chloe says, holding out a napkin to wipe the blood.

"Honey, do you want some ice for that?" Joyce asks quickly.

Rachel ignores it. "My Mom's not going to Greece," she blurts out.

Fuck!

Chloe drops the napkin and eyes the princess with an amused smile from across the table.

"Okay…" Joyce says. "I guess I'm sorry to hear that?"

"No, no… we, uh… we don't have family in Greece, and I told—"

 _Shit shit shit! Stop talking!_

Chloe crosses her arms and leans back into her seat as if enjoying a rather amusing show.

Rachel grabs the abandoned napkin on the table and dabs at the blood above her lip.

"I'm… I'm sorry," she tells Joyce. "It actually _was_ kind of a long night. I don't think I'm really awake yet."

Joyce pushes the coffee cup closer to Rachel and offers a gentle smile.

"No need to apologize. Why don't I get you girls something to eat and we can worry about the rest later?" Joyce says, giving Chloe a pat on the shoulder, which Chloe seems to want to flinch away from, but doesn't quite. "Try to tip your head back—it'll stop bleedin' quicker. I'll bring you some more napkins."

"Thanks, Mrs. Price," Rachel says, relieved. She notices Chloe's expression change for just a second, like she's surprised Rachel just said "Mrs. Price" instead of something more suited to a widow, but Rachel just leans back in the booth, wipes the blood from her nose on the sleeve of her shirt, and goes about unfolding her napkin onto her lap like she didn't say anything she shouldn't have.

In all honesty, Rachel is too distracted to worry about it. She still can't figure out why Unknown is not with them in the diner. She supposes it makes sense… Unknown _wasn't_ with them the first time, but… if they traveled together, they should have all ended up here. But then again, this is uncharted territory for Rachel. She's never been able to switch locations before, so who's to say Unknown is five thousand miles away right now screaming at a random passing truck driver to get her halfway to Arcadia Bay?

"This is weird," Chloe says after a few moments of silence.

"Weird?" Rachel says, trying not sweat—and failing. "Uh, weird how?"

"Weird because she doesn't seem mad at me," Chloe says. "She should be mad."

"And you think she doesn't care because she isn't mad," Rachel says, nodding.

She remembers how this conversation went last time—badly, for starters, but essentially it turned into Rachel blubbering about her Dad while Chloe was having a crisis of her own.

"I don't—" Chloe starts, but changes directions. Her face falls and she looks more vulnerable than she probably means to. "Maybe…"

"She just wants you to be safe, Chloe," Rachel says. "Maybe she's worried that her anger will push you away and you'll leave again, possibly putting yourself in a dangerous situation."

"You wouldn't let that happen," Chloe chuckles. "You're _The_ Rachel Amber—safety officer extraordinaire."

Rachel feels her stomach sink. As much as she hates to admit it, maybe Unknown was right when she said Rachel can't protect Chloe. She hopes that doesn't mean Unknown was right about Chloe and Rachel never being happy together. It's hard to be honest with herself about it, but Rachel thinks that might be something she wants—happiness with Chloe. Everything has been such a mess lately, it's tough to let herself want something and then consider the possibility that she might actually deserve it. Rachel _knows_ she's a liar. She _knows_ she's a two-faced shady deal-maker. But… what if she didn't _have_ to be those things to get what she wants this time? What if she could just… _ask_ for it? What would it cost? What are the chances that something like this could actually go well and not be beholden to the futures Unknown has seen?

Rachel doesn't like her odds.

"I'm flattered, but also contractually obligated to tell you you're wrong," Rachel says.

"Contractually obligated?" Chloe chuckles. "What contract would that be?"

Rachel looks Chloe dead in the eye, not off to the side like some coward with a complex.

"The contract where we both feel like more than friends," Rachel says. "So we should be."

Now it's Chloe's turn to sweat. Her eyes are wide and panicked, like she's never even considered being more than friends with Rachel Amber. _The_ Rachel Amber. That isn't true, obviously—she's thought about it quite a lot, but never in the context of it being a genuine possibility.

Rachel is about to revel in the triumph of her candor when she sees a figure emerging from the bathroom in the back of the diner.

 _FUCK!_

Rachel needs an excuse—quickly. She looks at her reflection in the window and frowns, pretending to be unsatisfied with her eyeliner application. She smudges at the pristine lines with her fingers, trying to make it look like something was out of place."Why don't I give you a minute to think about that while I powder my nose?" Rachel says, disguising her shock and horror with a smug smile.

Why the fuck didn't she just say she had to pee? People literally use the bathroom for peeing, which is a lot easier to fake than eyeliner. Does she even have eyeliner with her right now? She discreetly feels around her pant leg for a lump in her pocket as she gets up. Nope, nothing there. Well, shit.

As much as she doesn't want to admit it, she knows why she didn't say she had to pee.

She moves quickly to the back of the diner, conspicuously herding Unknown through the swinging door as she goes.

Rachel pushes Unknown against the sink, clutching her firmly by the collar.

"Feeling better, are we?" Unknown chuckles.

"What the _fuck_ , asshole? How are you here?!" Rachel hisses through her teeth, trying to keep this whole ordeal under wraps before Chloe suspects something is wrong.

"You hijack my rewind and _I'm_ the asshole?" Unknown says. "Gimme a break, blondie. There are greater forces at work here—and now we've gotta go back again to fix this timeline, too."

"Fix it? It's fine! Now stop following us—I can take it from here," Rachel says.

"I really don't think you can," Unknown says. "You've already changed something—you didn't go to the bathroom last time. What'd you say to Chloe?"

"I told her I needed to pee," Rachel says. "Because I saw your ugly fucking face."

"Chloe always said you had a spark…" Unknown says. "But I guess it takes at least that much to burn down a town, now doesn't it?"

"You said if I helped you—"

"Well you didn't," Unknown says. "You brought us here, which I specifically told you not to do. You let your emotions get the best of you—it's dangerous."

"Well I'm not fucking scared," Rachel says. "So take your weird watches and your dumb haircut and leave us out of your gross timeline trash."

"Chloe always said you preferred the hard way…" Unknown mutters, rolling her eyes and grabbing the back of Rachel's hair.

In one fluid motion, Unknown break's Rachel's grip and tosses her against the adjacent stall.

"I needed your help before because we had a passenger," Unknown says. "But now that we're alone, it's _my_ turn."

Unknown grabs the front of Rachel's shirt and pulls _hard_. It's enough to make her stumble forward and smack palms-first into the tile on the floor.

Wait… no, not the tile.

Carpet?

Unknown removes a tissue from her pocket and tosses it to the ground in front of the drama queen.

"Get up," Unknown says. "You're not hurt. We've got work to do."

Rachel glares over at the tissue and decides instead to wipe the blood from her nose on her shirtsleeve. She stands up, brushing her stinging palms against her jeans.

"Where are we?" she asks, looking around at the unfamiliar room.

No, wait… this _is_ a familiar room. This is a Blackwell dormitory. More specifically, it's Victoria Chase's dormitory.

"The real question is _why_ are we here," Unknown says.

"I can't change my location… how can you do that? I'm not—" Rachel begins, but Unknown cuts her off.

"You did it at the diner," Unknown says. "But you weren't in control—your _emotions_ took you there, which is exactly how we got here. So let's answer both questions in one: _why_ are we in Victoria Chase's bedroom?"

"I don't know, I didn't—"

"Use your head. What emotion is this, and how does it involve Victoria Chase?"

"I'm don't—I'm… I guess I'm angry," Rachel says.

"You guess?"

"No, I don't. I'm fucking _angry_ ," Rachel says. "Why are you such a dick?"

"You're not really mad at me," Unknown says as she sits down on the bed. "Clearly you're mad at Victoria."

"She's not the one puppeting me around time and space," Rachel sneers. "Maybe Victoria's a pain in the ass, but I haven't thought about her in days."

"And then we went back in time, Goldilocks. Your subconscious was angry with Victoria when we came back. Try to think."

Rachel looks around. The desk is covered in neat stacks of homework, probably done weeks in advance, and bad snapshots of Blackwell's students are hung on the wall as if Victoria plans to critique them herself before a formal class critique. Okay, they're not bad snapshots… they're actually… pretty okay. Fine, they're good. Rachel scans them more closely, examining each photo hanging from the end of a series of thick wooden clothespins. She notices a gap in the string.

A closer look at Victoria's trashcan reveals an unsettling re-imagining of a picture Victoria must have taken of Rachel a few weeks prior to—

"The play…" Rachel says, realizing what's about to happen. A look at the calendar on Victoria's door confirms it. "It's Friday."

"And what happened on Friday?" Unknown asks.

"Victoria told Wells I skipped school," Rachel says.

"And in about fifteen minutes, Victoria Chase is going to walk through that door and get her makeup kit," Unknown says. "And then she's gonna go down to _your_ dressing room, and she's gonna perform her weird little heart out as Prospera."

"No, she isn't," Rachel says, frowning. "I mean, she _didn't_. She _tried_ to, but then she like fainted or something…"

"No, she didn't," Unknown says. "You were here before that, weren't you."

Rachel looks at the desk of neatly-organized things: a purse, a makeup kit, a box of green tea, a pile of homework, a stack of graded exams, a bottle of sleeping pills, a stapler, a staple puller, some assorted highlighters, a pencil case full of evenly-sharpened pencils…

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rachel says.

"Why are you lying?" Unknown asks.

"Because it's none of your business," Rachel says sharply. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"But something happened here," Unknown says, "and it needs to happen again if we're gonna correct the timeline."

"Well maybe I shouldn't have done it," Rachel says. "And I don't wanna do it again."

"Yes, you do—stop _lying_ ," Unknown says. "You're a terrible actor."

Rachel's face starts to get hot—half rage, half embarrassment. She knows that poisoning Victoria was wrong, but she doesn't feel bad about it.

"I came in here, I saw the pills… but I didn't _do_ anything, alright?" Rachel says.

"No, but you went somewhere after this," Unknown says. "Chloe almost saw you—she almost caught you being exactly what you really are."

"I went down to the tent, and… Chloe…"

"She got in the way, didn't she," Unknown says. "Let's get down to the tent before we miss our window."

"What? I'm not gonna do that," Rachel says haughtily. "I'm being the bigger person."

"While I admire your sudden presence of conscience, you're _not_ the bigger person. In every timeline, you get back at Victoria for trying to steal your part—with or without my help. It's who you are," Unknown says.

"Maybe I don't wanna be that person, then," Rachel says.

"Fine, then don't be," Unknown says with a shrug. "Whatever you do, or don't do later… it's your business. But this _has_ to happen. This _always_ happens."

"Why are you like this?" Rachel asks. "Why are you trying to make something happen that shouldn't have happened?"

"I'm not here to make things happen how they _should_ or _shouldn't_ happen. I'm here to make sure things happen how they _did_ happen. This is _your_ fault—you did this. Now it's time to own up to it, Goldilocks."

"But I _don't_ wanna do it," Rachel says.

"You do," Unknown says. "You just don't want anyone to know about it."

"If I do it, will you keep Chloe from finding out?" Rachel asks.

"That's not my responsibility," Unknown says.

"Do you think she's gonna trust me if she thinks I'm going around poisoning people?" Rachel asks. "You need the timeline fixed, and in this timeline, she and I are still friends… which means she doesn't know."

"Fine," Unknown says. She pulls out a flip phone, checks the screen, and groans. She reaches back into an inside pocket of her jacket, pulls out three phones, checks them, and picks one. Her fingers move quickly over the keys.

"What are you doing?" Rachel asks.

"I'm ordering pizza… what the hell does it look like?" Unknown says. "Hang on, I've gotta go back to… about… when did Chloe leave your house last night?"

Unknown gets up from the bed and checks one of her watches, then flips over her wrist so she can see another set of watches.

"Fuck, okay—I'll be right back," Unknown says. "Thursday Night Chloe is about to get hit by a car."

She puts her arms out as if pushing against an invisible wall, and before Rachel can blink, Unknown's hands are stuffed in her pockets and she's back to looking bored.

"Okay, princess. Time to go," Unknown says.

"Stop calling me that," Rachel tells her. "You're not—"

She stops herself before she can say it, because as she's glaring over at Unknown, she sees it: the necklace.

"What are you wearing?" Rachel asks slowly. She takes her first good look at Unknown and realizes she _recognizes_ what she's seeing.

"It's supposed to be ironic," Unknown says, pulling at her Jane Doe t-shirt.

"Not the stupid shirt," Rachel says. She reaches for the necklace, but Unknown backs away, tucking it into her shirt.

"Don't go asking questions, Rachel. I'm not here to give you answers."

"Then why _are_ you here?" Rachel asks.

"Because I lost someone important in my timeline," Unknown says. "Even though I thought that _wasn't_ what I chose…"

"Is that why you have her necklace?" Rachel asks, adding up the pieces and shuffling them into place.

Unknown clutches at the three bullets on a black leather string, but doesn't speak.

"Wait… you said you're from the future…" Rachel begins, but she isn't sure how she'll finish the sentence. A hundred questions start bubbling up her throat at once, each with a more terrifying possible answer than the last. Maybe she _wants_ to know… but maybe she _doesn't_.

Unknown watches pensively as Rachel gathers her thoughts.

"How far in the future?" Rachel says finally.

Unknown doesn't reply.

"Have we ever even met?" Rachel asks. "I don't even know your name…"

Unknown checks one of her watches.

"We have to go, Goldilocks," Unknown says quietly. "Victoria's coming."

"I'm not a part of your future, am I..." Rachel says. It's not a question because she doesn't _want_ the answer. She actually wishes she hadn't said it out loud. She's angry, but relieved when Unknown doesn't respond. Instead, Unknown takes Rachel by the hand this time, not the shirt-front, and says to her gently, "Take us to the tent so we can get you home."

A deep, sinking feeling settles in Rachel's stomach. The lack of an answer speaks in greater volumes than the truth ever could, and clumsily assures Rachel that there's nothing she can do about any of it. Chloe is in danger. Rachel is in danger. Arcadia Bay is in danger.

And apparently the first step to fixing it all involves poisoning Victoria Chase.

Rachel thinks she can live with that.

She takes the bottle of sleeping pills from the desk, puts them in her pocket, and turns to look at Unknown, their hands still clasped together firmly.

"I'm… I'm really sorry that I'm like this," Rachel says.

Unknown gives her hand a squeeze and offers Rachel a pitying smile. "No, you're not," she says.

"No, I'm not."

The two of them vanish from the spot as Victoria Chase unlocks the door and pushes it open.


	22. Chapter 22

**Break A Leg**

"You look tired, Vic… are you sure you're feeling up to it?" Rachel asks from the doorway of the tent, startling the living daylights out of Victoria and causing her to upset her mason jar of makeup brushes.

"Rachel! I wasn't expecting to see you here tonight," Victoria says, giving a nervous giggle as she frantically contains an overturned bottle of nail polish remover.

"Just because I can't be in the show doesn't mean I don't wanna support all the hard work that's been put into it," Rachel says, stepping through the front curtain and coming over to lean on the edge of the vanity. She crosses her arms and waits for Victoria to dry the liquid off her script book.

"I think it's really great that you're finally getting your chance in the spotlight, Vic," Rachel says.

"No, you don't," Victoria sighs, slamming her book down on the vanity with more force than she meant to use. It makes a sickening _SLAP_ against the soggy wood and splashes nail polish remover up onto the mirror. The vanity wobbles dangerously, almost toppling a steaming cup of tea by Victoria's makeup kit.

"Easy there, tiger," Rachel chuckles. "Of course I think it's great. You memorized the lines just like I did—it'd be a shame to let all those hours of practice and blocking go to waste."

"Are you talking about me, or are you talking about _you_?" Victoria asks, but it isn't really a question. She sees exactly what Rachel is doing, and she just sighs and looks at Rachel through the mirror, a deep sense of boredom in her tone and posture as she waits for some kiss-ass response.

"Alright, fine," Rachel says. "Maybe I'm not here because I wanna support you. Maybe I just wanted—"

"Save it, Rachel," Victoria says with venom in her tone. "You're just upset that you got caught being your normal shady self and that you're finally being punished for it."

"If that's how you wanna put it, sure," Rachel sighs. "Justice is a pig sometimes, isn't it?"

"A… pig?" Victoria scoffs.

Rachel leans in, a mischievous grin crossing her face. "Yeah," she says. "A fat, warty little fuck that splashes around in the mud waiting for a chance to _squeal_."

Victoria's face goes red. She stares straight into the mirror and swallows hard.

"I don't think you know what you're talking about," Victoria says quietly.

"I think we both know what I'm talking about," Rachel says.

"I don't—and I'm not sorry your little escapades with Chloe went to shit. She's a bad influence, I've tried to warn you," Victoria says.

"And I've had the decency to ignore you," Rachel says.

"Well aren't you noble," Victoria mutters, rolling her eyes.

"Your photography might be top shelf, Vic… but we both know Keating wouldn't have even cast you as a fucking _tree_ without my help."

"You're wrong…" Victoria says, but her voice wavers just enough to invalidate her statement.

"And you're a better friend than this," Rachel says.

"What kind of friend does that make you, Rachel?"

"Seriously?" Rachel says. "I'm trying to protect you. If you go out there, you're gonna make a fool of yourself. People are gonna laugh at you, Vic…"

"You're just saying that so you can have the part," Victoria scoffs. "I've practiced—I'm ready for this."

"Fine then," Rachel says. "Self destruct if you want to… but just think about why you're here: the only reason you have the starring role is because you sold out the _real_ star for a chance to embarrass yourself in front of the whole school."

"You're not a star, Rachel," Victoria says. "You're not even in the show."

"Vic… look in the mirror," Rachel says. "What do you see?"

As Victoria rolls her eyes and shifts her gaze to the mirror, Rachel slips a few loose sleeping pills into Victoria's tea.

"I see a tragically misunderstood actress with unlimited potential," Victoria huffs.

"And I see a scared little nark with a guilt complex who knows she only got this part because of my intervention," Rachel says.

"Charming, Rachel" Victoria says. "But I know what _you_ did for this role, too. And trust me, if I were really a nark, half the fucking staff would be behind bars, and your GPA would look like a gas price from the 50's."

"Charisma isn't a crime," Rachel says.

"Neither is honesty, but it looks like _mine_ brought out the executioner in you, Rach," Victoria says. "Hypocrisy isn't a good look for you."

"Says the kettle to the pot…" Rachel mutters.

"Look, I know you're feeling all noble and betrayed right now, but seriously—I did this for your own good. And if you wanna judge me for looking out for you, then so be it. But I see the way you look at her, Rachel, and it's dangerous. If you're not careful, it won't just be your part in the play that gets taken from you—it'll be your whole life."

"You're just upset because I'm spending more time with someone else," Rachel says.

"Do I look like the jealous type to you?" Victoria scoffs.

"Why else would you be so concerned with who I'm looking at?"

"It's not—I mean, it… isn't the _who_ … it's…" Victoria fumbles for words, her face slowly falling from haughty disgust into a look of fear and shame. "It's the… _quality_ of the look…"

Rachel blinks dumbly for a second, trying to think. "What quality?"

"You're an _idiot_ , Rachel," Victoria sighs. "Now if you don't mind, I've got a show to prepare for, and you've probably got a few more redeeming qualities to go flush down the Chloe toilet."

"Bitter little thing, aren't we," Rachel says with a chuckle.

Victoria does another exaggerated eye roll and says, "Get out of my tent, Rachel."

"With pleasure," Rachel says.

Rachel slips out the side of the tent, being sure to steer clear of the front flap where she knows Chloe will appear any minute now. She can hear Victoria shoving the remains of Rachel's flannel shirts and makeup off the vanity and onto the floor of the tent, sending Rachel's "break a leg" cards and other personal items toppling into the garbage.

Rachel waits to make her way completely around the tent until she hears Victoria start to choke on her "special" tea. Chloe is standing outside looking stiff as a board with a look on her face like she's just crushed a puppy with her bare hands.

"We're ruined!" Mr. Keaton bellows. "Juliet—our Ariel—confounded by the conflagration!"

"She did _what_?!" Hayden says, rushing from the boys' tent to where Mr. Keaton is having his meltdown.

"The fire, dear Ferdinand!" Keaton monologues. "It has spread such that the roads are lined with fleeing victims and debris!"

"She texted me saying she was stuck in traffic…" Steph says, rolling her eyes at Mr. Keaton. She sits back down at the light board and begins tearing through pages of cues. "She doesn't have too many lines until the middle of Act One… maybe we can figure something out."

Rachel comes over to Chloe and nudges her.

"What the hell did I miss?" Rachel asks, gesturing to Nathan doing bad CPR on Victoria Chase over by the tent.

"This show is fucked," Chloe mumbles. "Where were you?"

"I got caught up," Rachel shrugs. "Looks like I'm here just in time though."

Mr. Keaton wails loudly into his hands as Steph wildly turns pages and crosses out entrances in the script.

"It's fine!" Steph says. "See? Look, we can just… we can skip this part, and—"

"RUINED!" Mr. Keaton cries. "Reduced to carving up Shakespeare like a country ham!"

Rachel takes Chloe's hand in the chaos.

"Do you trust me?" Rachel asks.

Rachel hopes she isn't making an enormous. She hopes that Unknown kept her word. She hopes like fucking hell that Chloe got whatever text was supposed to protect her from the miserable truth of what Rachel Amber just did—now twice—to meet her own selfish ends. Rachel knows that Chloe has absolutely no reason to trust her. There's not a chance in hell that any of what she's done so far has been right, or that any of it has been good for Chloe, but God she hopes there's something in Chloe that remembers that feeling Rachel _knows_ they've both felt for each other over and over again. She hopes there's something still remaining of the Chloe who blushed when Rachel twirled around in her Prospera costume… who kissed Rachel in the DA's house and held her hand on the stairs… who wanted so badly for Rachel to admit that they could be more than friends, and who agreed so long ago to run away with the drama queen, knowing little other than that they'd be together. But could Chloe possibly trust Rachel after all that's happened—after the last instance of blind trust left Chloe picking up the pieces after a fire no one meant to start?

"Yes," Chloe says.

And Rachel smiles.

She tries to keep it subdued, otherwise she'd be grinning from ear to ear, but it's hard to contain the feeling of Chloe, despite everything they've been through, saying 'yes' just one more time. And when Rachel raises Chloe's arm in the air to tell Mr. Keaton his troubles are over, there is a moment of sinking guilt wherein Rachel realizes she's taken advantage of Chloe at every possible turn.

And Chloe running off before the curtain call finally makes sense now. Chloe's anger at dinner finally makes sense now. Chloe's forgiveness when she thought Rachel had outed her about coming home… that still doesn't make sense. Chloe never asking about the rumors involving Rachel and half the faculty at Blackwell… never passing judgement, never asking about Nathan, never questioning her involvement with the Vortex Club, never chastising Rachel for being friends with Victoria Chase, consistently trying to do the right thing by Rachel… that makes absolutely _no sense_. Maybe there's something she needs to do differently this time. Maybe instead of using Chloe to further her own selfish agenda, Rachel needs to stop and think. Initially, Rachel just wanted her part back—she just wanted to be the star—and if using Chloe was the only way to do that, so be it. She felt, originally, that she owed Chloe at least _something_ for her services… so why not a vague promise of happiness? Why not tell Chloe something that might make the "superpower" bullshit seem more genuine? Rachel _did_ want to run away when she proposed it, sure… but with Chloe? She wasn't sure. It would've been nice to think that Chloe would come willingly and never bore Rachel. In fact, that probably would've been the case—Rachel sees that now. The problem, at the time, was the fact that _Rachel wasn't sure_. Everyone had either given up on winning over Rachel, or said anything they could to please her. That was _boring_. Chloe, though… Rachel had traveled through time to make sure Chloe wasn't like that. And whether Rachel could admit it back then or not, she knew that her unguarded heart _wanted_ Chloe desperately. She even knew without question that the only person whose trust and companionship had ever made her feel the way she felt was _Chloe_. There was definitely something there.

But was Rachel kidding herself back then? She just wasn't sure.

As she stands with Chloe backstage, Rachel considers her options: she could do as Unknown asked and complete the moment in the tent, then leave… _or_ … she could go up on that stage and fix it.

Rachel peers past the pointed tops of the tents and over toward the treeline in the distance. The white "Jane Doe" lettering on a pink t-shirt is barely visible in the darkness, and Rachel can almost hear Unknown saying, "It's time to go."

But it isn't.

Not just yet. Rachel doesn't want to leave this night without it going the way she knows it could have. So she gives one last look to the trees—one last, defiant look—and disappears with Chloe into her tent. This will not be a reenactment. This will be _better_ than that, and it will end the way it _should_ have ended: in a universe where Chloe and Rachel are happy, and Unknown isn't here. Rachel would do anything for a universe like that.

She feels her phone buzzing in her pocket, and she has the good sense to ignore it.

If Unknown wants to try and stop her this time, she'd better want it pretty fucking badly… because as far as Rachel is concerned, this is going to be the night that changes every possible future forever.

Rachel is done with acting.


	23. Chapter 23

**Late**

Rachel isn't sure what she's doing, but she's exhilarated by it. The minute she put on that Prospera costume, she knew everything was going to go perfectly this time—without question.

Stepping onto the stage is easier, somehow, the second time… because she knows Nathan will flub his lines. She knows the follow spot will be off on its own adventure through all of act one. She knows when the crowd will laugh, she knows Dana will trip in the third scene and just barely catch herself, and she knows Chloe will stumble out of the dark and mumble her way through Juliet's part… and then she'll say _yes_ to Rachel.

But this time, instead of letting Chloe run off, Rachel will stop her… because there is a part of both of them that wants to stay together. She'll stop Chloe Price, she'll pull her in by the fucking nylon of her leotard if she has to, and then they'll kiss. Rachel doesn't care if everyone sees—she is going to kiss Chloe Price and the universe will fix itself. She knows it. Unknown will have never been, Rachel's rewind will return, and nothing in the world will ever hurt Chloe again. Rachel will make sure of that.

The beginning of the show goes on without a single hitch. Rachel is absolutely perfect. She delivers her lines with conviction, makes her marks without flaw, and when she finally calls for Chloe, she is completely prepared to throw everything into the improv moments between the two of them.

The scene goes on exactly as she remembers it. Dana is sprawled out "sleeping" on a piece of foam painted to look like a rock, Chloe waddles around stage looking uncomfortable, but selling it enough to pass the part, and Rachel presides over the scene with a confident and haughty air.

"Ariel, thy charge exactly is performed," Rachel says, leading Chloe around Dana's sleeping form. "But there's more work."

"Is there more toil?" Chloe asks, hunching with mock exhaustion. "Let me remember thee what thou hast promised!"

"How now?" Rachel says, crossing her arms over her chest. "What is't thou canst demand?"

"My liberty!" Chloe says.

"Thy liberty?" Rachel asks, knowing Chloe could never want such a thing in earnest.

"Um…" Chloe begins, but Rachel cuts her off to avoid a possible break in the scene.

"Nay! This most of all I will not grant," Rachel says.

Chloe doesn't hesitate, but Rachel knows the gears in her head are turning fast.

"But… thou assured my freedom," Chloe says.

"I… never said how dearly I hold thee," Rachel says. "My habit's been to keep my soul well-draped."

Rachel leans closer to Chloe, taking a gentle hand and guiding it along Chloe's chin.

"Most loyal spirit…" Rachel goes on. "Companion… and friend. Is acting in my service not replete with excitement, amusement, and delight?"

She looks beseechingly up at Chloe.

"Of course, mistress…" Chloe says.

"Then why, I pray you, wish you to be free?" Rachel asks.

"Excitement's a mere counterfeit of bliss…" Chloe says. "These storms, these adventures… I prefer to know thou still cared for my plainest self."

Rachel slams her staff down on the stage, realizing her moment is coming.

"I have thee in my grasp," Rachel says. "I will not bend. I will not see thee flying forth alone. The envy would be… more than I could bear."

"So come with me!" Chloe says. "Is that not in thy pow'r?"

"Spirit…" Rachel says. "Take my hands, most faithful friend…"

She kneels, laying her staff on the stage and reaching for Chloe.

"For but a little longer, I beseech: continue in thy service to my schemes. And when they are complete… I swear to thee: we shall fly beyond this isle, the corners of the world our mere prologue. I'll seek to make thy happiness so great that e'en the name of liberty's forgot. What sayest thou to my most hopeful wish?"

Chloe blinks down at Rachel, a look of genuine fear crossing her face. Rachel doesn't remember that expression… and she doesn't remember the way it looks like it's starting to turn to anger… resentment…

She hears someone in the crowd shout, "Say yes!"

Chloe takes a breath, looks Rachel square in her face, and opens her mouth…

"No."

The crowd gasps in shock.

Backstage, Mr. Keaton clutches at his script with feverish, shaking hands. He looks like he might burst.

Rachel's mouth falls open.

This isn't how it goes. This isn't the way she remembers it—Chloe is supposed to say _yes_. That's… that's the point of this entire re-do. Rachel starts the improv, Chloe says yes, and the two of them live happily ever after. _That's the way it's supposed to go._

"Uh… nay," Chloe says, taking a step back from Rachel. "For 'tis only but an empty promise—far less tangible than air."

"Then how would thee have it made more real?" Rachel asks, slowly standing and taking up her staff.

"More real? Thou suggest a token?" Chloe says, frowning. She puts a finger to her chin and makes an exaggerated, thoughtful pose.

"Name thy price."

"The price of promised fidelity must be an act of equal roots," Chloe says.

"Name it, spirit—thou hast my ear…"

"Such an act cannot be guessed?" Chloe asks.

Rachel can feel her face getting hot. She knows what Chloe wants. More importantly, now Rachel doesn't have to make an unfortunate show of figuring out how to ask for it on her own. She can just let Chloe ask for exactly what she wants, and then give it to her.

"Guessed… perhaps. But courage wins what it demands," Rachel says. "Name it, spirit, and thou shall have all that is desired."

"Very well," says Chloe. "Thou owe me but a kiss… and I shall do as thou commands—continue in thy service, such that storms and oceans shall cease to know us apart."

Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel can see Mr. Keaton buckle to the floor, having fainted from the rapture of the performance. Steph has long since abandoned her post in the wings in favor of the lighting board backstage, and seems to be trying her best to play along. The stormy backdrop is lit by a soft blue haze, and Chloe and Rachel stand in a flood of golden light. Rachel is reminded of that first day of hookie on the train… the way the sun set over the tips of the pines and left a warm orange blanket covering the hills.

Rachel takes a step towards Chloe.

"You shall have it," Rachel says. She tosses her staff aside, grabs Chloe by the waist, and pulls her in close.

The crowd buzzes with excitement, some people cheering, some others knowing full well that this isn't how _The Tempest_ goes and wishing they hadn't come.

"Are we seriously doing this?" Chloe whispers, just inches from Rachel's lips.

"Only if it's what you really want," Rachel says.

"I think—" Chloe begins, but a clap of thunder rolls through the clouds overhead, interrupting her.

Wait… the sky was clear just a minute ago. Rachel remembers, and this isn't how it goes. As soon as she looks up, the sky opens and rain falls heavily over the crowd. Everyone begins running for cover, using their playbills as umbrellas, throwing their purses over their heads, and ducking for the nearest buildings. Chloe and Rachel just stand there as the stage crew members make wild attempts to cover the light board and the set pieces, not wanting them to be ruined or short circuit.

No one here wants to start a fire.

Chloe sighs and slides the feathery beak off her head, turning it over in her hands and regarding it with disappointment.

"So much for that," she says, letting it tumble onto the wet stage.

"It's… not too late, y'know," Rachel says slowly, hoping not to sound too eager.

"Sure it is, princess," Chloe says. "Show's over. Nobody's watching anymore."

"What makes you think I need people to be watching?" Rachel asks.

Chloe gestures widely to the stage and gives a sad chuckle. "I don't know, Rachel," she says, defeat in her voice. "Guess it's just a hunch."

"Chloe, I'm not—I don't wanna be like that with you…"

"Y'know, I almost said yes to you before—when you asked if… well I don't really know _what_ you were asking. But I almost said yes, and then I realized..." Chloe says. "It occurred to me that this was a play… and you were playing a part."

"We're all playing parts," Rachel says. "Why does that make it any less real?"

"Because I'm gonna go home—wherever that is—at some point… and all this is gonna be over. And I'm gonna go back to being me, but you're still gonna be _The_ Rachel Amber. And she doesn't hang out with people like me."

"Yes, she does," Rachel says, reaching for Chloe's hands. "And for what it's worth, I _really_ … wanted to kiss you."

"For what it's worth, I was probably going to let you."

"Well what about now?" Rachel asks, swinging Chloe's arms lightly back and forth. "Would you let me kiss you _now_?"

Chloe chuckles. "I don't know…"

There she is. There's the Chloe who played two truths and a lie—the one who forgave Rachel for her behavior in the park… forgave her for every behavior afterwards. This is the Chloe that Rachel knows she's meant to be with.

Chloe reaches for Rachel's face. "Hey, uh… are you okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You're… sorta bleeding…" Chloe says.

Rachel feels the dull headache coming on. She wipes the blood from her nose and looks over her shoulder. She can see faint white lettering in the distant treeline.

 _It's time to go_.

Something is definitely wrong, and Rachel knows it. The rain is proof. She grabs Chloe by the shoulders.

"I'm gonna fix this, I promise," she says as a flash of lightning streaks overhead. "And when I come back—"

The rest of her words are drowned out by a loud clap of thunder. She supposes it doesn't matter what she does when she comes back. At that point, it'll all be over… and Chloe probably won't remember this. They're going to need to go back, Rachel knows it. _When_ they'll need to go… she can't be sure. But she lets go of Chloe, hoping like hell that this isn't the last chance she'll ever get with Chloe Price, and she hops off the stage.

The grass is slippery and she isn't wearing shoes, so the trek into the woods is more perilous than Rachel would've assumed. The rain is coming down in heavy sheets, and over her shoulder, she watches as Chloe stands on stage, confused and probably still disappointed, and absolutely frozen by the weight of whatever the hell just happened.

Or… no… she's actually frozen. Rachel looks around to her left to see the disbursed bits of crowd standing completely still, mid-motion, under awnings and street lamps.

"Are you serious?!" Unknown says as she appears from the darkness. "Look what you've _done!_ "

"This wasn't me!" Rachel says. "I don't… I'm not sure how this happened. It isn't supposed to rain tonight—it _didn't_ rain!"

"That's what happens when you _change_ things, Rachel— _this_ is the price of getting what you want."

Rachel wipes the running makeup from her forehead with the back of her hand to keep it from getting in her eyes.

"All I did was change a few lines… it shouldn't matter…" Rachel says.

"But look what those lines were _doing_ ," Unknown says. "You're ruining everything… you have to stop! We have to go back and you have to make this better."

"No!" Rachel says. "I don't believe you. I don't believe that in every possible universe, you know Chloe and you don't know me. I don't believe that Chloe and I aren't meant to be something… else. This can't be it."

Unknown holds out her arms, gesturing to the rain.

"This isn't proof enough?" Unknown asks Rachel. "This isn't evidence that the universe will literally break itself apart to keep you two from being together?"

"I don't believe that," Rachel says.

"Look around, Goldilocks. It doesn't get better from here—it gets worse. This night is _fixed_ in time. It doesn't move, it's always the same. You always go off script. Chloe always says yes. That's the way it's supposed to be."

"She said no," Rachel mumbles.

"Because we've changed too many things here," Unknown says. "This is a fragile moment—it _has_ to go right, and we've destabilized it. We have to go back further."

"No… it's because she _remembered_."

"That's impossible! _We_ have to remember. _They_ get to forget," Unknown says.

"She remembered saying yes…" Rachel says quietly. "She's been saving bits and pieces, I know she has."

"Chloe gets erased every time we go back. No exceptions," Unknown says. "Whatever you do, whatever you say… it gets erased. This present _doesn't exist_. It's literally drowning itself because it isn't supposed to _be_. You and Chloe aren't supposed to _be_."

"Why not?"

Unknown doesn't respond. She sets her jaw and stares pityingly at the princess. Rachel can't tell if her eyes are stinging from the runny makeup, or if she's about to start crying. She hopes she's not about to fucking cry, because that means she just might actually think what Unknown says is true.

"I'm… sorry, Rachel," Unknown says haltingly, her face falling as she speaks. "I can't tell you that. Certain things have already been set in motion..."

Rachel rubs at her eyes with her sleeve.

"Then let's go back to when they _aren't_ in motion."

"That isn't how this works," Unknown says. "The future is too unstable—certain fixed points have to be preserved, otherwise… who knows what we'll come back to."

"Exactly," Rachel says. "No one knows—not even you. It could be better."

"No, Rachel. It could only be so much worse. I've been to the future, I know what it needs to look like," Unknown says. "If you and Chloe end up together, that future won't exist—the best case scenario won't exist."

"Best case for _whom_?"

"For the greatest majority," Unknown says.

"But not for me—and not for Chloe," Rachel says.

"I didn't say that."

"Well maybe she's what's best for me!" Rachel says, crossing her arms. "Maybe I _need_ Chloe, and maybe… she needs me, too."

"Wake up, Rachel! You're fifteen fucking years old! The only people you two need are your _parents_. Get your goddamn head out of your ass and help me fix the fucking future!"

Rachel reaches out and shoves Unknown hard.

Unknown stumbles backward, catching herself on a nearby tree.

Fury rises in Rachel like a thick, viscous liquid in too small of a pot. She can feel the smoke rising toward the smoke detector… inching closer and closer…

"You don't get to talk to me like that!" Rachel shouts. " _Nobody_ gets to talk to me like that! I don't _know_ you. You come in here with your grand sense of goddamn purpose, you throw around your all-important, narcissistic 'the future is in danger' trash, and _I'm_ conceited? _I'm_ the one with my head in my ass? Why don't _you_ grow up, you solipsistic piece of shit?"

"I get that this is stressful for you," Unknown says through gritted teeth, "but this is bigger than both of us. You don't have much of a choice."

"I have _every_ choice. You've threatened me, 'siphoned' me, royally beheaded my relationsh… my _friendship_ with Chloe, and because of it, I'm the only thing 'not working' in your perfect little vision. If you need my help so bad, why don't know fucking earn it?"

"We don't have time for me to kiss your rings, your highness," Unknown says. "I'm not here to make it onto your birthday party guest list, I'm here to save the people I care about. You don't like how I'm treating you? How about you go spend the next forty-some years reliving your wretched fucking past and send _me_ a pleasantly-worded postcard, huh? You're barely a _plotpoint_ , Rachel. A dot on the timeline. Your only significance in the grand scheme of any of this exists long after you're rotting in the ground."

Rachel stares dumbly at Unknown in shock.

"You want me to earn your help, Drama Queen? How about you earn some goddamn perspective," Unknown says, brushing moss bits and bark remnants from the arm she used to catch herself.

Rachel can't even begin to figure out what she wants to say. Her thoughts race at alarming speeds and she can't tell which one needs to reach her mouth first. Of course she wants to be helpful—all she ever wants is to be useful and adored. But this Unknown bitch is a lunatic. She's talking about things she couldn't possibly understand and making decrees left and right about what can and can't happen. Admittedly, Rachel shouldn't have pushed Unknown—that was a mistake. She just gets… confused. She's so used to the lock and key security of her emotional compartments that she often has trouble figuring out what's beneath all the little metal lids. She keeps them closed so she doesn't _have_ to look. She keeps everyone distant and that way everything is safe. No one upsets the boxes. No one adds new information, nothing goes missing, and Rachel always has the upper hand.

For once in her incredibly short life, Rachel Amber does _not_ have the upper hand, and frankly, it's terrifying. She keeps looking for ways out of it, but it won't unwind itself. Unknown persists. Admittedly, she couldn't care less about Unknown's tone or how she presents information. Rachel maybe even _likes_ the no-bullshit attitude. It reminds her that she doesn't have to be in control all the time—that every once in a while, the weight of the world doesn't depend on what outfit she chooses for Victoria Chase, or what advice she gives Nathan about his dad. Sometimes Rachel doesn't want to be in control.

But if she isn't in control, what is there? With no one depending on her for every ounce of their self worth, who _is_ Rachel Amber? What _is_ her function in the grand scheme? Is it really all as pointless as Unknown says it is? Is Rachel really as worthless as she feels? Could it be true that the universe doesn't hinge on how many times she meets and un-meets Chloe Price?

Something in Unknown's face softens. There is a look in her eyes like she suddenly feels something other than simple animosity for Rachel, and there's a moment where Rachel wishes desperately that she wasn't crying in front of Unknown. It's embarrassing to be looked at so deeply and so completely… considering Rachel knows full well that she's in the wrong. She doesn't _want_ Unknown to be nice to her now. She needs a reason to stay angry. She wants the pain of being called out to be furthered by some other kind of unforgivable behavior on Unknown's part. Rachel needs to hang onto something she understands—like rage. Fear is a far worse enemy to take on than hatred.

Unknown reaches out a hand and places it on Rachel's shoulder, unsure she really wants to come in contact with the princess after what she's just said. She does it anyway, but with as little pressure as she can manage.

"Rachel… I know it's not what you want to hear, but even the best case scenario has its flaws. I can't make you do any of this, and I don't want to have to ask it of you—it isn't fair. I know that. There's nothing easy about what we're doing, and it isn't going to end how either of us wants it to end… but we've gotta do it anyway… _especially_ knowing how hard it will be and how badly it'll end up," Unknown says gently.

Rachel smears her sleeve through more makeup running down her cheeks.

"We need to leave now," Unknown says. "It's time to go."

Rachel nods very slowly, to the point where it's hardly a not at all, but Unknown seems to understand that a level of understanding has been reached… and a level of consent.

"I know it's hard, but I need you to try not to think of anything," Unknown says. "I need to drive."

"Where are we going?" Rachel asks.

"Somewhere you'll be happy," Unknown says.

"Are you sure?"

Unknown offers a sympathetic half-smile and nods reassuringly.

"I promise," she says.

As the two of them depart from the frozen Blackwell campus, Rachel lets go of the reigns. The sound of the rain fades slowly and without any sort of resistance. The rain, unlike Rachel, knows when it isn't meant to be somewhere. It understands that it shouldn't exist the way it does. So without fighting, without screaming, without pushing or calling names, it leaves. It goes all on its own to where it _should_ be, and it doesn't need insults to take it.

* * *

Rachel feels the familiar tingling… the familiar pulls. Her stomach twists and the air crackles to life as time folds in on itself and backwards. When everything stops moving, she realizes she has had her eyes closed.

"You're allowed to look, y'know… it isn't a secret," Unknown says.

"I know," Rachel mumbles, opening her eyes in the misty twilight of some long-forgotten evening. The two of them stand in the middle of the street leading away from Rachel's house. A nearby streetlamp pulses to life and a collection of small gnats and moths flock into the milky yellow halo. Rachel can hear the distant sounds of the highway, the croaking of a few fat frogs, and a lively orchestra of crickets chiming in on the wakening night.

"When are we?" Rachel asks.

Unknown checks a watch on the underside of her arm. "It's just after seven thirty… we're running late, actually."

The two of them start making their way down the street towards Nathan's house.

"How can we be late?" Rachel huffs miserably. "We just traveled through fucking time."

"You were already late the first time."

"Yeah, because some asshole had hijacked my rewind…" Rachel mutters.

"So you _know_ when we are," Unknown chuckles, stuffing her hands in her pockets.

"Nathan's party…" Rachel says, looking down at her clothes. She is wearing her most aggressive punk look, complete with popped-collar jacket and fingerless gloves. She holds her hands out in front of her face, regarding them disdainfully. "You said I'd be happy here."

"We're going to a party," Unknown says. "You like parties."

"I didn't wanna go…"

"Why did you then?" Unknown asks.

"Because… I guess I felt guilty," Rachel replies. "I said something to Nathan that wasn't fair, and that made me feel like I owed him—he begged me to come."

"What'd you say?"

Rachel sighs. "Something about his Dad."

"That's… that's a shame," Unknown says quietly, almost like she understands the reason Rachel doesn't want to repeat what she said.

"Do you know him?" Rachel asks.

"I thought I used to, but… y'know," Unknown says dismissively.

"He's… yeah, he's a hard one to get to know."

The silence between them is heavy as they walk along the side of the road. It seems like Nathan is a sore topic for both of them, not just Rachel. She's just not sure why. But it occurs to her that Unknown is still a rather large mystery. She's obviously knows Chloe, is clearly from the future, and definitely knows some pretty fucked up things. But on top of that… what is there to know? She's probably from Arcadia Bay—how else would she know Nathan, or even Chloe for that matter? How would she know anything about this one-horse shit-show town? She looks like a teenager, though she doesn't act like one, and she clearly has more than just a friendly tie to Chloe. The two of them seem to have been close at some point. Really close. And quite frankly, Rachel doesn't like that. There hasn't been much breathing room to ask questions, and Rachel _doesn't_ trust Unknown. She seems to know what she's talking about, but she has also kept Rachel from using her rewind and has definitely kept her from Chloe. Unknown is also an asshole, Rachel reminds herself. There's no real reason why they're walking so close together in the gathering dark to go to some stupid party Rachel wishes she could undo. Rachel can definitely do this part on her own, she doesn't need a practical stranger nagging her the whole way to Nathan's, and she certainly doesn't need Unknown asking questions and screwing this whole thing up like she's managed to do with everything else.

"So why are we going to his house?" Unknown asks finally, breaking Rachel from her careening train of thought.

"The party," Rachel says. "I thought I said…"

"The party isn't at Nathan's house," Unknown says. "What _is_?"

"Uhm…" Rachel can feel her face getting hot. "I left something there…"

Unknown sighs. "We both know you're a terrible liar."

"I'm not lying," Rachel says.

"You are—and you're stealing," Unknown says.

"It's not stealing, it's… complicated," Rachel says. "Look, didn't you bring me back here to do exactly what I did before?"

"Yes…"

"Then how about you stop judging me for it? I'm not proud of myself, okay? I clearly haven't made fantastic decisions lately, but if we're gonna get through this, you could at least let me fuck it up in peace."

"That's… fair, actually," Unknown says, nodding.

"Thank you," Rachel says. "I've been told on multiple occasions that I'm the fairest of them all."

Unknown manages a short, airy chuckle through her nose.

"Was that… laughter?" Rachel smirks. "About something _I_ said?"

"Let's not push our luck, alright?" Unknown says.

"You only ever laugh at _yourself_ when you're being a know-it-all dick," Rachel says.

"I'm not _always_ like that," Unknown says.

"Prove it," Rachel says.

"Oh no y'don't," Unknown says. "I've just seen how you thespians 'prove' things to each other… I'll pass, thanks."

"I'm _not_ a lesbian," Rachel says firmly.

"Thespian…" Unknown says.

"Fuck."

"Funny you should say that, though… considering…"

"Considering…?" Rachel asks.

"Uh… y'know," Unknown flounders. "The whole 'Chloe' thing…"

"I don't know," Rachel shrugs. "Why do we have to call it something?"

"Well you sure didn't wanna call it 'lesbian', so…"

"There's just baggage with words sometimes, y'know? I've got enough baggage of my own, and the last thing I need is to be _more_ complicated."

"The notion doesn't seem to have stopped you before," Unknown says.

"Well I'm working on it, okay? Jesus, you're worse than my mom…"

"Isn't your Mom…?" Unknown starts.

"Gone," Rachel sighs. "Yeah, I know. She… well, I guess she hasn't left yet since we're in the past, but… yeah. She leaves."

"Oh…" Unknown says, trying to backpedal. Clearly that wasn't what she had planned to say. "I'm… sorry to hear that."

"It's not new," Rachel says. "I'm sure you've known."

"Knowing something doesn't necessarily make it suck less," Unknown says.

"Well not knowing something doesn't make it less of a dick," Rachel says with all the venom in her tone that she can muster.

"I see we're not talking about your mom anymore," Unknown sighs.

"We're not."

"Okay… clearly you have some unresolved questions, so… what do you need to know?" Unknown asks.

"Well, for starters, a name would be nice," Rachel says. "I've literally been calling you 'Unknown' in my head."

Unknown chuckles. "Why's that?"

"Your stupid texts," Rachel says. "And I have no idea who you are."

"My number comes up as Unavailable," Unknown says.

"I guess it was too many syllables," Rachel sighs. "I don't know—you're avoiding the question. I'm not just gonna traipse around Arcadia Bay with a stranger forever, ya know."

"No one can do anything forever," Unknown nods in agreement. "And I wouldn't expect that of you."

"So what should I call you?" Rachel asks. "If you don't like Unknown..."

"I never said I didn't like it," Unknown shrugs. "It's… sort of quaint."

"Fine," Rachel says, swinging her arms absentmindedly at her sides. "Keep your secrets. It doesn't sound like it ultimately matters anyway."

"Hey, listen… I didn't mean to give you the impression that you aren't cosmically important or anything," Unknown says. "Quite the contrary. You're a major catalyst for some huge fixed points in the future."

"If that's a compliment, I think it needs work…"

"No, no… it's not a compliment, per se, but—listen, it's just that I don't want you to feel like what you're doing is meaningless. It _has_ meaning. It all does."

"So if I have meaning, then why can't I know anything?" Rachel asks.

"Some of the fixed events in your near future need to remain stable. If I tell you too much, you'll do what you always do."

"Shine in the face of adversity?" Rachel asks.

"No," Unknown rolls her eyes. "You'll go off book. That' _can't_ happen."

"So what _can_ we change, if all the rest of this is really meant to happen?"

"We can get that truck started," Unknown says.

"Seriously?" Rachel asks. "You came all this way to fix a fucking truck?"

"It's taken an incredibly long time, but yeah, that's the gist of it," Unknown says. "I've had my work cut out for me… and with all the angst around you two, it's been like a fucking ant farm trying to corral the teenage timebombs to a car battery. The 'will they, won't they' suspense was killing me."

"You knew the whole time that we wouldn't," Rachel says.

"I knew the whole time that you _shouldn't_ ," Unknown says. "But you aren't exactly known for living by the script..."

"Not if the script is fucking lame," Rachel says.

She reaches into her jacket and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it with a swift flourish of her Zippo.

"Are you seriously gonna smoke right now?" Unknown asks.

"What?" Rachel says. "I did it last time—check your little watches or whatever. Seven sixteen: Rachel smokes a cigarette. Seven nineteen: Rachel extinguishes aforementioned cigarette on nearby know-it-all's face."

"Mature."

"I'm fifteen, remember? I don't have to be mature," Rachel says.

Unknown grunts her disapproval, but doesn't respond.

Rachel takes a long drag from her cigarette and lets the ashes fall onto the pavement.

"So why won't you tell me how it happens?" Rachel asks.

"How what happens?"

"How I die—duh," Rachel says.

Unknown frowns. "Who said you die?"

"The circle of life, all that hokey 'dust to dust' nonsense," Rachel says. "That's usually everybody's first time travel question, isn't it?"

"And usually the people who get the answer are worse off having asked for it," Unknown says.

"I guess I don't really wanna know," Rachel says. "And I wouldn't trust you to tell me the truth anyway."

"And you don't have to, I guess that's your right. But you _do_ have to listen to me every now and again. Whether you like it or not, we're kinda stuck together."

"Great…" Rachel rolls her eyes and takes another drag.

"Look, how about I agree not to judge the decisions you've made, and you agree not to fight me so fucking hard?"

"If I'm not breaking rules, check my pulse," Rachel huffs, bringing her cigarette back to her lips.

Unknown rolls her eyes.

"You're an honors student, idiot," Unknown says. "You've skipped school exactly once, and you got caught. Not to mention you _admitted_ it under basically zero pressure. You're not the hardened criminal you pretend to be."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rachel shrugs, flicking her cigarette butt into the gutter.

"If you think your association with Frank Bowers makes you any more of a badass than a piece of gum stuck to the underside of a table, then you're kidding yourself. Frank is a damn marshmallow, and blackmailing him into giving Chloe pot doesn't make you a threat."

"He's not a marshmallow! He's on a warpath!"

"To infiltrate every high school in Arcadia Bay with soft drugs and over the counter sleep supplements? You've gotta be kidding me. Just because he's capable of murder doesn't mean he's dangerous," Unknown says. "And just because he's a dealer with connections doesn't mean he's gonna protect you when the time comes. Spoilers: he doesn't."

"You said I didn't wanna know how I die," Rachel says.

"Who said that's how you die?" Unknown asks.

"You said he can't protect me."

"And he doesn't, but that won't always mean you die because of it," Unknown says. "There are worse things."

"Like maiming and shit?" Rachel asks.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Is this you telling me?" Rachel asks.

"No, this is you arriving at Nathan's house and doing what we came here to do," Unknown smirks, sticking out her arm to stop Rachel mid-stride.

Rachel glares over at Unknown, pushes her arm away, and digs in her pocket to pull out her phone.

"What are you doing?" Unknown asks.

"I'm telling on you," Rachel sneers, not looking up from her screen. "You're from the future—you know what I'm doing."

" _The_ text?" Unknown asks.

" _The_ text."

Rachel hits "send" and puts her phone away. "Time to make the donuts," she sighs, looking up at the formidable house across the lawn.

"Let's not get cocky. You've got a job to do," Unknown says.

"Yeah, yeah, Captain Business," Rachel shrugs. "This ain't my first rodeo."

"Captain… business?" Unknown mumbles to herself as Rachel wanders off.

She goes directly to the left of the gate and finds her favorite foothold in the stone wall surrounding the Prescott estate. Her hands slip between two loose stones and she hoists herself up and onto the flat top of the wall.

"Please tell me you're not coming," Rachel says.

Unknown looks up at the princess. "I think I'd prefer to give you your privacy," she says. "But remember—exactly like it happened. No improv."

Rachel makes a yammering hand puppet gesture and rolls her eyes. Then, she disappears over the wall, landing almost gracefully in the grass. Almost. She knows where the raised sprinkler heads are and how to avoid them as she makes her way across the lawn toward Nathan's window. Through the grass and over the small garden of wilted tulips… then through the small crop of trees fenced in by a smattering of decorative bricks… down the last few yards of fresh mulch and gravel…

Rachel stops just under the gutter. There's no spring to Rachel's step as she climbs up the railing on the back deck and hoists herself onto the roof. She creeps quietly along the shingles, past the upstairs family room where the TV is glowing brightly with some recorded hockey game, and over to a window covered by a blackout curtain. She remembers the last time she was here… bellyaching about her mother being gone. That almost seems like a lifetime ago now, and she feels herself regretting that conversation more than ever. Nathan needed to talk, but Rachel wouldn't listen. It was _Rachel's_ turn, like always, and Nathan had to put aside his feelings and deal with her drama. Rachel wishes she could take that back, but there's a part of her that's almost glad she can't. She'd have to go back and pretend to listen, pretend his problem was in any way significant, and then offer some sage advice about how no one will remember it in a week—how badly he fucked up _The Tempest_. Honestly, _nothing_ went right for that show… poor Shakespeare. But he was a liar and a thief, too… so Rachel supposes that makes the two of them even.

Rachel slips her fingers under the thin trim at the bottom of the window and quietly slides open the glass. The curtain parts without much hassle and Rachel is able to climb onto Nathan's desk. She knows he keeps it clear for her. There is no doubt in Rachel's mind that when Nathan goes home for the weekends, his only beacon of hope is the possibility of a visit from Rachel Amber. _The_ Rachel Amber. A pang of guilt wrenches through her stomach as she climbs off the desk, her first foot having to reach lower than it normally would without the help of the stool Nathan is not here to slide into place.

Rachel hates that she doesn't visit Nathan at home more often.

She hates that she didn't see him after the play.

She takes a deep, slow breath and tries not to think about why she originally came here. Her fingers automatically reach for the bottom drawer of Nathan's desk. She lets her mind wander away from the fact that she is stealing drugs from Nathan's bedroom. She almost doesn't feel the small bag of pills as she gathers it in her hand… as she drops it into her pocket… as she quietly closes the drawer. She can't believe she did this the first time. She can't imagine how selfish this was back then. The worst part is that she can't even pretend she doesn't know why she did it. She knows _exactly_ why, and she's too ashamed to even think about it. She flips open the monthly organizer next to Nathan's computer and checks again for when Nathan will receive his next hookup. She remembers the dark circle scrawled in the bottom of Tuesday's square and reaches for a pencil to scrub away the evidence, redrawing the dot in Monday's square instead. Rachel carefully wipes the eraser crumbs onto the floor and restores the pencil to its upright position in Nathan's mason jar of office supplies, being sure to rotate it so that the printed "2" on the side faces away from her. Nathan hates to see the stamped letters when he's working—he claims they're "unnecessary clutter" and should be left off altogether. Rachel remembers his reaction when she mentioned to him the first time that he could certainly find pencils that didn't have stamps on them: a solid and nearly-audible eye roll of disgust. "Where would the torment in my work come from if I didn't have life's small miseries?" he had asked. Rachel remembers having laughed at that. She can't quite figure out why that seemed like the appropriate response at the time, but she remembers thinking that was exactly what Nathan wanted her to do.

Maybe he wasn't kidding after all.

Rachel closes the planner and begins making her exit.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out and reads the reply from Frank:

 _U got the $$?_

Rachel sighs and types back her wretched response:

 _Give me two hours. I'll meet you on the beach._

Frank responds with a winking emoji and Rachel shoves her phone back into her pocket. That's enough… it's time to go.

Rachel climbs back onto the desk as gracefully as she can manage, then back through the window and onto the roof. She draws tight the curtains, closes the window behind her, and begins her descent into the yard. _Just put one foot in front of the other_ , she tells herself as she crosses the lawn to the stone wall. That is how she will get through this. That is the only way to get through the rest of the night, and certainly the only way to re-make her mistakes during it.

When she lands on the other side of the wall, Rachel dusts off her jacket and waits for Unknown to peer out of the shadows.

"It's done?" Unknown asks.

"To the letter, m'lord," Rachel says, giving a mocking curtsy.

"I'm glad you still have your sense of humor," Unknown says tersely. "You're going to need it."

Rachel reaches into her jacket pocket and frees another cigarette from the pack, lighting it and bringing it to her lips.

"Again?" Unknown sighs.

Rachel waves a dismissive hand. "Check your script," she says. "Seven forty-five: Rachel puts a nail in her coffin."

Unknown grumbles, but doesn't reply.

"Oh, so you're the only one who can make veiled mentions of a cosmically-necessary and unavoidable death?" Rachel scoffs.

"I'm not keen on joking about it, that's all," Unknown says.

"Why are you so against me smoking?" Rachel asks. "There's no way this is the bullshit that kills me."

"Because the people around you are looking to you for an example," Unknown says. "Hell of a job, Rachel. Hell of a job…"

"Well everyone who's watching can certainly benefit from a little buzz now and again," Rachel says.

"It just baffles me that you're so unaware of the fact that your actions have global consequences," Unknown says. "You've been using time travel all your life, and somehow changing the present with your actions is of zero interest to you."

"I guess the present doesn't occur to me as much as the past does," Rachel says. "And as you can probably tell, I try not to focus too much on the future."

Rachel flicks the ash from the end of her cigarette.

"I guess it probably sounds silly that I'm here from the future telling you not to live in your past," Unknown says.

"It's okay, I filter most of your talking out," Rachel says.

Unknown sighs heavily. "I wish Chloe had better emphasized how insufferable you are. I feel incredibly underprepared."

"Why would she?" Rachel asks. "Chloe thinks I'm the shit."

"Shit, indeed," Unknown mumbles.

"No, _the_ shit. Like _The_ Rachel Amber."

" _The_ biggest pain in the ass…"

" _Now_ who's being mature," Rachel huffs.

"Honestly, I don't think either of us are," Unknown says.

"You're half right…"

"You're a challenging personality," Unknown says, "but not an impossible one. I'll admit I haven't been the most beguiling of companions…"

"Is this what an apology sounds like coming out of you?" Rachel asks.

"No," Unknown says. "But it's probably as close as you're ever gonna get."

"I guess I'll take it," Rachel mutters. "I haven't exactly made it easy for you either…"

"I should certainly say not," Unknown says.

"But so far, we seem to be making things a hell of a lot worse," Rachel says. "Maybe we weren't meant to work together."

"I think the fact that we _haven't_ been working together is the problem," Unknown says. "Trust me, if there was anyone else on the roster, I'd bench you… but my choices are limited by the fact that we share an unfortunately intimate link for being such disparate figures."

"Then I guess… whatever this is… we need to get through it," Rachel says. "Together."

"Whether we like it or not, that seems like our safest option."

"Okay, so… check one of your stupid watches and say something foreboding so we can get to this shitty party," Rachel says. "I've got a meeting in two hours."

Unknown looks down at one of her watches. "Quite a bit less than that now…"

"Not quite the 'foreboding' I was looking for, but I guess 'vague with a hint of constipation' will have to do," Rachel shrugs, stepping out into the street.

Unknown rolls her eyes. "I liked you better when you were passed out."

Rachel chuckles to herself. "And I liked you better when you didn't exist."


	24. Chapter 24

**The Vortex Club**

Unknown pokes her head nervously around the corner of the radio tower, then turns back to Rachel with an expression of extreme discomfort.

"I'm not sure," she tells Rachel. "I know you're supposed to go in there, and I know it's all fine… but I'm just not sure."

Rachel pulls out another cigarette and lights it. "Of all the shit to be nervous about, you picked the wrong thing, asshole," Rachel mumbles through the unoccupied corner of her mouth.

"You know how I feel about these parties," Unknown says.

"Uh… no," Rachel says. "I don't know _anything_ about you, remember? I swear, we keep having this conversation…"

"We keep doing a _lot_ of things," Unknown says. "That's the point. But this… I don't know, I really don't wanna let you go in there."

"What are you, my Mom?" Rachel sneers.

"If I were, would I still be here?" Unknown spits back.

Rachel's face falls.

"I'm… fuck, I don't know why I said that," Unknown murmurs apologetically. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Rachel says, trying to hide how deeply that cut her. "I haven't exactly been nice to you either."

"I think it's just this party," Unknown says. "It really gets to me."

"Why?"

"Because I know how it ends," Unknown says.

"With some tequila puked up into a handbag?" Rachel mutters.

"No," Unknown says. "All of this—not just the party."

"So there's something 'cosmically important' about this?" Rachel asks.

"There's something cosmically important about _everything_ ," Unknown says. "But yes, this night in particular helps to set a course."

"All the more reason why I should go down there," Rachel says.

"I know," Unknown says. "I just… don't like that you go down there alone."

"You could come with me, y'know," Rachel shrugs. "It's almost weirder if you stand all the way out here…"

"I can't," Unknown says. "I wasn't there the first time—and they can't see me. None of them."

"Sounds like you've got some weird personal shit going on," Rachel sighs. "Whatever. I'm late for being late, and while I'm pretty sure Nathan would wait for me all night if I made him, I'd better not."

"He would," Unknown confirms solemnly. "But you're right, you should go."

"Alright, shorty," Rachel says after a long drag of her cigarette. "Kiss me goodbye, I'm goin' in."

Unknown frowns and sputters out the beginning of a rejection, taken aback.

Rachel laughs. "I'm kidding," she says. "And if I wasn't, you're not my type."

Unknown snatches the cigarette from Rachel's fingers and grind it against the steel beam of the radio tower.

"Hey, I needed that!" Rachel says. "Nine thirty-five: Rachel smokes again!"

"You're lying," Unknown says with ice in her tone. "You're smoking because you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous," Rachel says, rolling her eyes. "I've done this party before—it goes fine."

"I know it does," Unknown says. "I just…"

"It's okay to say you'll miss me," Rachel says, brushing her hair over her shoulder. "I'm kind of a big deal."

"Maybe in there, you are," Unknown says. "Now get a goddamn move on."

"Testy," Rachel smirks. "I'll meet you on the beach."

Unknown nods solemnly as Rachel turns to go, giving her most dramatic hair flip as she heads towards the flashing lights and bumping bass of the party outside the old barn.

Rachel can feel Unknown's eyes boring holes into the back of her leather jacket the whole way down the hill and up to the low cattle fence. She isn't sure why there are so many nerves surrounding this one party—it goes fine. Rachel remembers it going absolutely fine.

The music is loud, but not unbearably so—not like the Mill—and there are hoards of people that Rachel is pretty sure Nathan didn't actually invite. A large framework of steel scaffolding and plywood shelves sits off to the far right of the barn, beer pong tables are swarmed by sleeveless nobodies, and the main dance floor is marked off by a series of crumpled old traffic cones. It'll be easy to avoid Nathan in all of this. It'll be easy to avoid _anyone_.

Rachel makes a b-line for Courtney Wagner in the crowd. She's holding two drinks outside of the row of port-a-potties that Hayden brought two-by-two in the bed of his truck. Courtney is looking bored to death as she swirls the ice in her drink absentmindedly.

"Rough night?" Rachel asks.

"Taylor's been puking since we got here," Courtney sighs. "I literally told her not to pre-game so hard, but she's so fucking sloppy, she just couldn't resist."

Rachel can hear the echoing sound of Taylor throwing up in the port-a-potty at the end of the row. She winces at the memory of that puke later ending up in Courtney's handbag.

"Well, I might have something that'll cheer you up," Rachel says, pulling out the small bag of pills that she took from Nathan's room.

A sly smile crosses Courtney's face. "Oh you are _bad_ , Rach," she says, handing over one of the drinks so she can dig into her purse for her wallet. "The usual?"

"Of course."

Courtney exchanges a crisp twenty for one of the pills and clinks her solo cup against Rachel's.

"Cheers to a better night," Courtney says.

"To the _best_ night," Rachel agrees.

Courtney takes a swig of her drink, tossing back the pill, and sighs in the direction of the port-a-potties.

"Do you want this back?" Rachel asks, wiggling the ice around in the cup.

"Why, so barf-face can wet her whistle?" Courtney sneers. "Keep it. I think she's had enough."

"Good luck with that…" Rachel chuckles and heads off into the crowd.

She quickly ditches the acrid cocktail on a crate piled high with trash as she passes the keg station. Her next target is Hayden, who she comes across playing beer pong next to the scaffolding erected to house the sound system.

"I didn't think you'd make it!" Hayden says, offering her a one-armed hug, the other arm occupied by a frothy solo cup of beer.

"I heard you had a hand in the music selection," Rachel says. "So I couldn't resist."

The group around the table cheers as Hayden's beer pong partner sinks a ping pong ball into one of the opposing cups.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Rachel," Hayden says. "I hope you brought something to help us all enjoy this marvelous ear-feast."

"You know me too well," Rachel says.

"You got five?" Hayden asks.

"You bet."

"Awesome, I didn't have change," Hayden says, slipping her a hundred dollar bill.

Rachel hands over five of the pills and slides the money into her pocket.

"If you're lookin' to make a little extra, I think Nathan's feeling extravagantly down tonight," Hayden says. "Maybe he could use some… upping."

"Nathan's got his own connections—you know I don't do business with him," Rachel says sternly. "Besides, the fact that I do any business at all is strictly between you and me, remember?"

Hayden puts his hands up in defeat. "You're right," he says. "Anyway, I'm sure seeing you here will do him more good than a happy pill ever could."

"Now who's using flattery to get what they want?" Rachel smirks.

"I know I can't pull anything over on you, Rach," Hayden chuckles. "And I wouldn't want to."

"Yeah, yeah—perfect man syndrome, blah blah blah," Rachel says. "Just point me to the rain cloud and we'll see if I can sort him out."

Hayden gives a drunken bow and gestures to the old barn.

"Of course he picks the creepiest fucking corner to sulk in," Rachel groans. She gives a dramatic curtsy and lopes off towards the entrance of the barn. She doesn't _want_ to go see Nathan, but she knows that's the feeling of the first time seeping in—the time right after she said that thing about his father. But she knows he doesn't bring it up. She remembers the conversation… she remembers steeling away into the barn with him… she remembers where his hands go and what he says to make her want so desperately to leave…

"You made it," comes a voice from the shadows.

Rachel jumps (as authentically as she can) in surprise. "You scared me!"

Nathan leans halfway out of the shadows. "I'm sorry, Rach," he says sheepishly. "I saw you coming, I just wanted to surprise you."

"Consider me surprised," Rachel mutters.

"Are you upset?"

"No," Rachel shrugs. "But you seem to be… holding up the wall or something in the only dark fucking corner…"

"Somebody's gotta do it," Nathan says, leaning back against the building. "They're old enough that I'm not sure they'd stand on their own."

Rachel reaches out and grabs both of Nathan's hands, leaning her weight backwards so that he peels off the boards.

"Come on, Nathan," Rachel sighs. "Let's go enjoy this mess you've made."

"Wait…" Nathan starts, resisting Rachel's gentle herding into the light.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm… glad you came," Nathan says.

"Me too," she says. "And I'm… I'm really sorry about—"

"Please," Nathan says, cutting her off. "I don't wanna talk about that. It's over—you're here. Let's just let tonight be tonight."

"Okay…" Rachel says reluctantly.

Nathan holds out his elbow to her. "Whadda ya say we go inside? Find some other dark corner to haunt?"

"Would that make you happy?" Rachel asks.

"I'm as happy with you as I'll ever be—no matter where we are."

"Then we should enjoy the party," Rachel says. "We'll be missed if we run off somewhere to hide."

Nathan doesn't say that only _Rachel_ would be missed. He isn't cruel enough to mention that his misery and isolation are almost entirely Rachel's fault, and that if he wasn't so positively unhappy at every juncture of his life, he might actually be able to stomach a conversation with another human being. Rachel knows that the two of them have been able to indulge in the guilty pleasure of each other's company up to this point because of Nathan's lack of social prowess, and she knows that at some point she will have to decide if he is helping or hindering her popularity… and if that social standing is more important than Nathan. But thus far she has been able to avoid making big decisions and bearing witness to her own faults. She isn't sure if that makes her lucky, or stupid. Maybe a little bit of both. She remembers thinking at this exact moment that it might be the _kind_ thing to let Nathan know he _might_ be missed. Even if it isn't true, it might relieve him of some small shaving of his monstrous burdens. It wasn't difficult to realize how terrible of an idea that actually was at the time, though—and only moments after conceiving of it.

"The party was merely a ruse to get you here," Nathan smiles mischievously. "I have something better in mind for the two of us."

Rachel looks down at Nathan's outstretched arm. Guilt squeezes around her stomach like a thick, sturdy fist. She thinks she might go join Taylor in the barf-a-potty, but she takes Nathan's arm anyway. Immediately, Rachel is reminded of Chloe, in full bird headdress and makeup, standing on stage… waiting for Rachel to _please, for the love of God, stand up_. This must be what it really feels like to go along with something you don't want to do. Rachel wishes she had felt this feeling the _first_ time. She knows it would defeat the purpose of her rewind to do everything right the first time, but… maybe… if she lived more in the present, like Unknown said, she wouldn't really need it after all. The incredible gift of hindsight seems to be one of the more bittersweet facts of life, Rachel realizes. Everyone else just has to act and bear the weight of the consequences… especially people like Nathan who prefer not to be in control.

Rachel isn't paying attention as Nathan leads her into the dark, crumbling barn. The scent of wet straw hangs more thickly in the air, the ground is made of a dustier, more firmly-packed earth, and only thin slivers of moonlight are visible through missing roof tiles and broken wall panels. The music is softer and the sweaty confusion of the party outside is muffled by the darkness and the smell of damp wood.

"This was my great-great… uh, great grand-something's barn," Nathan says casually as he kicks his heel against a bale of hay. "Now it's my father's."

"It's… charming," Rachel says, not really sure what type of word he wants her to find for the rusty-nail real estate.

"It's broken," Nathan says. "Maybe that's why I like it so much."

"Jesus, Nathan," Rachel sighs. "Why do you always say shit like that? It makes people uncomfortable."

"Do I make _you_ uncomfortable?" he asks.

"I think I've got the market cornered for dramatic flare," Rachel admits. "It's hard to make me uncomfortable with that fake, tortured shit."

"Then I don't care what makes 'people' uncomfortable," Nathan says. "They don't see it like we see it."

"See what?"

"The bones of everything," Nathan says. "The _structure_. We see the structure like no one else could."

"I don't know if that's true, or if I just want to believe it," Rachel says. "It's hard to be special without 'special' becoming overdone."

"So what if we overdo it?" Nathan asks. "Sometimes it's healthy to do too much of a good thing. You told me once that it didn't matter if it took me all day to get out of bed—that I was the only person I ever had to answer to when it came to matters of my well-being."

"And I still believe that," Rachel says. "I just worry that giving you permission to answer to yourself means giving you permission to mistreat yourself, too."

"We all mistreat ourselves in different ways," Nathan shrugs. "You lie, I sleep until dinnertime. What's the harm in harming ourselves if we don't hurt the people we love?"

"We should love ourselves," Rachel says. "Isn't that the point?"

"The point is what you sharpen the dull everyday into," Nathan says. "How you hone your truth is what cuts through the mundane."

"You're avoiding the question," Rachel says.

"I'm just avoiding the answer."

Nathan leads Rachel over to a spot in the floor that looks fairly new and is covered in what looks like heavy metal paneling.

"The question, on the other hand… I think it's absolutely fascinating," Nathan says. He repeats the question thoughtfully: "Isn't that the point?"

The end of his sentence sounds more like a mumble to himself than a question to Rachel. He lets it hang as he moves to pry apart the two metal panels.

"What's that?" Rachel asks.

"Well… it's not quite finished yet," Nathan says. "I'll have a magnetic seal on here—and a key, obviously…"

"Avoidant," Rachel mutters.

"It's a… well, uh," Nathan sputters. "I think you'd better just see it."

He pulls out his phone and moves a slider on the screen. Bright white LED lights slowly begin to beam up from what looks like the entrance of a root cellar.

"Can I entice you?" Nathan asks, a mischievous smile crossing his face as he holds out his hand.

Rachel feels the guilt fist clench tighter. She knows what will happen, and she fears what will happen if she doesn't let it. Will that awful rain return? Will lightning strike the barn and cause it to come crashing down over the metal door in flames, trapping the two of them down in some nightmare cavern together forever?

Rachel tries to swallow the lump in her throat as she takes Nathan's hand.

"You know I'd follow you anywhere," she says with a wry smile.

They both know it isn't true, but the lie is somehow sweeter than silence, and Nathan doesn't complain. He leads her down a series of steps and to the end of a very short hallway that terminates in a thick metal door secured by a number pad. Nathan types in _542_ and a small light turns green at the bottom of the keypad.

"It's not much… but when it's finished, it'll be the safest place on the planet," Nathan says, pushing open the door.

A giant white-tiled floor stretches forward and around a sharp corner, and the black paneling is only partially installed on the walls. Piles of wall panels and floor tiles are stacked on plastic-wrapped pallets, and dirty sheets drape across ladders and buckets full of some kind of grout. The beginnings of a studio are laid bare before the two of them as Rachel stares open-mouthed at the progress in Nathan's underground bunker.

"What _is_ this?" Rachel asks, trying to seem like it's all brand new and wondrous.

"It's… whatever we want it to be," Nathan says. "What do you think? A living room? A fallout shelter?"

Nathan goes on listing types of rooms and Rachel quickly tunes him out as before. She can't begin to see what Nathan is seeing, and doesn't want to. She wants to leave, as she did the first time, and she doesn't want to be at this party. She still has a few more of Nathan's pills left to sell outside before she has the funds she needs to meet Frank, and she needs to get to the beach before he gets cranky and starts making demands.

"Nathan, this is hella cool," Rachel says. She doesn't want to say it, but it's how she described it before—again, not knowing what to call this place.

"I'm glad you approve," Nathan says. "I'm hoping we can spend a little more time here… rather than at my parents' house, where you have to climb up the gutter like a common thief."

"I'd call that an advanced thief move," Rachel says. "Your yard is a minefield of sprinklers—and the security cameras only have the one blindspot."

"Well someday that'll be a thing of the past," Nathan says hopefully. "If… if you want."

Nathan rests a hand on the small of Rachel's back and a chill runs up her spine. This is wrong. This whole place is _wrong_. She needs to go. She shrugs out of his touch as she did before, making it seem like she hadn't noticed it. She turns to face him, a mischievous smirk climbing over her features in an attempt to hide whatever other mess she's feeling.

"I want a lot of things," Rachel says, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You're avoiding the question," Nathan says.

"I didn't hear one," Rachel shrugs. She knows full well that this is what flirting looks like. People don't talk to their friends like this. She is perfectly aware of what she's doing, and she hates that she's doing it.

Nathan chuckles and offers Rachel a "gimme a break" sort of look, then moves his hands to her waist.

Rachel blinks slowly, trying not to give away the fact that she's about to destroy him on purpose. She knows that people who _aren't_ flirting would move away. She's crystal clear on that fact. She would remove his hands and take a step back… but she can't.

"I'm building a secret bunker under my father's barn in an attempt to make something safe for us," Nathan says, craning his neck down so that his eyes are level with Rachel's. "Am I mistaken in thinking that this might be something you crave as much as I do?"

Rachel uncrosses her arms and lets her hands come to rest on Nathan's chest.

"We've been over this," Rachel says. "I'm in this for the millisecond of peace I manage to find in feeling understood by you. _You're_ in this for the tortured pining and heartbreaking reality of my inability to truly love anything but myself. If I said 'yes' to you right now, where would that leave us?"

"The question was actually phrased in hopes of a 'no'," Nathan mumbles.

"Regardless—let's not even ask the question," Rachel says, pulling Nathan into a hug. "Let's just be what we are, and not worry so much about answering questions. I'm not good at this whole 'love me back loudly' type of shit."

"Then love me quietly," Nathan says, holding her tightly. "And in _your_ way. We'll put all the rest out of our minds."

Rachel feels the nagging urge to agree with him out loud somehow, but remembers the silence that she ended the conversation with the first time. It was a _good_ silence that time, and she didn't hate it nearly as much as she hates this one. She knows how he must feel, not getting what he wants… but the torture _is_ what he wants—he's made that very clear when their arrangement began. Rachel wishes the relief she normally felt with Nathan would be equal, somehow, to the exquisite discomfort he must feel every time she rejects him outright. But… then again… there are even fewer moments of relief in Rachel's life that happen organically, so the milliseconds will have to do for now.

When the two of them resurface from the bunker, Rachel makes her excuses and goes back out into the party, sliding pills into hands and dragging back fistfulls of cash as she makes her way to the far end of the cattle fence. She hates that she's doing this to Nathan, but she knows it's what he would want. It would bruise him so deeply and torment him to no end. Part of her hopes he _does_ find out… but the decent sliver left in her hopes desperately that he doesn't. Some punishments are too much for even Nathan to bear.

As Rachel nears the cattle fence, she keeps an eye out for the dark figure bumbling through the crowd. Rachel sighs in defeat. Here we go. Just get this over with and get to the beach. She slows her pace just enough to match the stumbling idiot. Just a few more steps… and the two collide. Rachel topples to the ground and Victoria clings to her on the way down. The two of them collapse into the dirt. Victoria starts laughing drunkenly.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks. She knows Victoria is fine, but this is the only way to end this portion of the night… so Rachel asks anyway.

"M'fine," Victoria giggles, rolling off Rachel and onto the dusty ground. "Why're you so sssssssoooooft?"

"What the fuck?" Rachel mutters in disgust. "How much have you had to drink?"

Victoria holds up her fingers as if to count the drinks, but quickly tangles them together and gives a shrug. "Something," she says, not answering the question.

"Vick…"

"Hey, have you seen Nathan?" Victoria asks, propping herself up on her elbows.

Rachel does her best to sit up, but she can feel a bruise forming along her ribs where Victoria barreled into her and it stings so bad she can hardly support herself.

"I—uh… no," Rachel says. She remembers saying yes the first time… she can't imagine what's gotten into her. Shit. She worries that the thunder will rip through the clouds overhead and lightning will flash… then everything will be trodden over by the rain if she doesn't get this night correct. "Wait—yes. I've seen him. He's…"

"He said he wanted to show me something," Victoria says.

Rachel isn't sure why she feels a pang of jealousy, but she most certainly does.

"I think he slunk off to his car for a smoke," Rachel says. "Maybe you should wait for him to come back."

Victoria's hands reach out for Rachel and wrap around her leather-clad forearm.

"Hey, Rach?" Victoria asks.

"Yeah?"

"Will y'help me?" Victoria asks.

Rachel pushes herself to her feet, ignoring the terrible soreness, and bends down to take Victoria by the hands. She manages to get Victoria almost all the way upright before the sloppy little idiot takes another tumble, and Rachel again has to grapple with the idea of leaving the bitch in the dirt.

But Rachel knows better. She knows that _this_ Victoria hasn't ratted anyone out to Principal Wells. _This_ Victoria is just a lonely little girl in a dirt patch, trying her best to be likeable. Whether she likes it or not, Rachel can relate to that on some level. So she reaches back down and pulls Victoria to her feet, steadying her against the cattle fence.

"Yer a good fffffriend, Rach," Victoria slurs.

"Yeah… you remember that for later," Rachel sighs, leaning against the fence and using her thumb to wipe some dirt from Victoria's chin. She knows that isn't what she said last time… but what's the harm in a little gentle prodding? Victoria won't remember this in the morning, let alone a week from now when she watches Rachel leave school grounds with Chloe. She'll seethe, she'll tell Wells, and then she'll drink the tea—that's the Victoria Chase timeline, Rachel knows it.

Victoria latches onto Rachel's hand as it's about to leave her chin. "Hey, Rach?"

"Yeah?"

"You, uh… you remember freshman year?" Victoria asks, wobbling a little on the cattle fence and blinking slowly. "In my dorm that one weekend?"

"Yeah, what about it?" Rachel asks.

"N-nothing," Victoria mumbles. "Just… didn't know if you'd remember."

"I do," Rachel says. "Yeah… of course I do."

Victoria nods, but she clearly isn't really listening. She looks sad for some reason—sadder than she looked last time. Maybe Rachel just wasn't paying attention last time… she was in a serious hurry to leave and get to the beach with her pocketfuls of cash.

"Hey, um… thanks, Rachel," Victoria says, pushing off the fence and steadying herself.

"Sure thing…" Rachel says carefully, remembering how Victoria fell again the first time she walked away from this conversation. Rachel sighs as Victoria bites the dust about fifteen feet away, wishing she had taken Victoria over to Hayden for safe keeping.

But that's not how it happened, so that isn't what she does this time.

She climbs over the fence quietly and disappears into the night like before, leaving Victoria in the dirt to fend for herself. She remembers thinking there wasn't _time_ to go back. Now that she knows Frank will be fifteen minutes late, she regrets that decision.

But tonight isn't about regrets. Tonight is about getting everything right—even the mistakes. No wonder Victoria hates Rachel. Truth be told, Rachel hasn't thought about that weekend in Victoria's dorm since it happened. She didn't even give Victoria back the sweatshirt she borrowed, she just stuffed it in the back of her closet at home and forgot. That's what she does a _lot_ with Victoria: she just pushes her aside and forgets. After all, nothing about that weekend was meant to last. It was the dipping of a toe into a pool and finding that the water was warm. That weekend ended, though, and the temperature in the pool fell back below freezing.

Rachel leaves the party, realizing she didn't really get to enjoy any of it. Although, admittedly, her favorite part of a Vortex Club party is arriving late and leaving early, with no one any the wiser that she'd done so. She shows her face to a few key players, and it's almost as if she was there the whole night. In that way, she puts on another mask: one that shows her pleasure to fulfill the obligation and join the festivities… rather than her true feelings of disconnection and her unrelenting need for escape.

Rachel likes to escape an awful lot, she's learning. She likes to be away. Whether it's the flexible and terrifying future, or the unwieldy and guilt-ridden past, Rachel is always yearning to be somewhere other than where she is. The present is a more formidable enemy than any she has faced, and she knows in the pit of her sinking stomach that there's nothing she can ever do to stop or escape it. She can only live in the hopeful in-between of jumping through time before the present will eventually be all she has left to endure. For Rachel, that's the scariest part of not being in control of her powers: existing in a linear direction, unable to edit or erase.

When Rachel's boots finally begin shuffling their way through the coarse sand of Arcadia Beach, she is snapped out of her spiraling thoughts. A hand reaches for her in the dark and pulls her sharply into a shadow behind some dense shrubbery.

"What the _fuck?!_ " Rachel hisses. "I thought I was about to get _murdered_ or something!"

Unknown grunts. "I wish. Look, we've gotta get this over with. Something's wrong."

Unknown points up to the sky where a dark cloud is slowly forming.

"I did everything exactly right!" Rachel says. "I-I mean… mostly. I got the big stuff right, the pills, the money, the… whatever the hell Nathan showed me, I don't know what that was. And helping Victoria—"

"Chase?" Unknown asks.

"Yeah… is there another Victoria?"

"The one you just poisoned?" Unknown smirks.

"Yeah, but later. Why is that weird?"

"Okay, lots of reasons. But I guess I just… forget about you being her friend sometimes," Unknown says. "She's a real dick."

"Takes one to know one," Rachel mutters.

"Well it took one to make one," Unknown shrugs, un-crouching from her position behind the bush.

"Are you saying I—?"

"We don't have time, numbskull," Unknown interrupts. "Give Frank what he wants, tell him what you told him, and let's go."

"But that cloud is because something changed," Rachel says. "Right? We have to go back…"

"No, we have to go _forward_. And fast," Unknown says. "It's a pretty small cloud, we just need to get ahead of it. Maybe it'll fix itself if we just—"

Rachel pulls Unknown back down behind the bush.

"He's here!" Rachel whispers urgently.

Unknown nods and gestures for Rachel to go talk to him.

Rachel rolls her eyes and mutters, "Great way to make an entrance."

She stands up from behind the bush and straightens out her jacket, taking a deep breath before stepping out into the open moonlight. She doesn't realize until she's halfway to Frank's position that he has been watching her the whole time.

"Were you just in a bush?" Frank asks.

"What?" Rachel sputters, stopping in front of him on the sand. "No!"

A boom of thunder cracks through the sky, now almost entirely covered in dark clouds.

"Uhm… okay," Frank says. "Because I'm pretty sure I just saw you—"

Thunder cracks across the sky, interrupting him. Rachel has to hide the fear on her face as she peers up at the gathering dark clouds.

"It's not supposed to rain tonight… what the hell is this?" Frank asks.

Rachel shrugs, trying to keep her tone even and bewildered. "Just a thunderstorm I guess," she shrugs. "Probably nothing to worry about."

"That's what Damon said about you, little lady," Frank chuckles. "And look how that turned out…"

"Damon's an idiot," Rachel sniffs.

"Maybe," Frank chuckles. "But sometimes 'stupid' pays the bills."

"And sometimes it gets you killed," Rachel says darkly. "But we're not here to talk about Damon, we're here for business."

"Always the direct sort," Frank says, a wry smile crossing his face. "I've always liked that about you—no bullshit. It's rare for a woman."

Rachel puts her hands on her hips. "And knowing when to shut up seems to be rare for a man… if I can even call you that."

Frank chuckles, gesturing widely to give Rachel her stage. "Message received. Floor's yours, m'lady."

"I need a favor," Rachel says.

"Not really a favor if I'm getting paid for it," Frank says. "But sure… I'll bite."

"I need you to bring some unsavory characters to the Mill for that concert we talked about," Rachel says.

"Unsavory characters?"

"Yeah," Rachel says. "Some… I don't know… dangerous-looking folk."

"There'll be no shortage of them already, I'm sure," Frank says. "Why do you need my help?"

"Because I need them to start something with Chloe Price," Rachel says.

"You think that little punk is gonna be there?" Frank says. "It's a fuckin' school night."

"That's exactly why she'll be there," Rachel says. "I don't want them to hurt her, I just want them to seem like they might."

"What's that gonna do?"

"I need her to trust me," Rachel says. "And saving someone's ass is worth a hell of a lot more than pretty words and promises."

"You're a weird, twisted little girl, y'know that?" Frank says with a chuckle. "Most kids your age just invite their friends over for a sleepover."

"I'm not a kid," Rachel says. "I'm a businesswoman. Do you accept my terms, or not?"

"So lemme get this straight," Frank says. "You're gonna pay me to help you play hero with Chloe Price?"

"That's a bit of an oversimplification, but sure," Rachel says.

"Fine. Cash upfront," Frank says.

Rachel hands over the wads of bills from her pockets and Frank eyes the crumpled money skeptically.

"Do we have a deal?" Rachel asks.

"Deal?" Frank scoffs. "I don't know… this seems a little impersonal for this kind of a job. I'm the only one with any skin in the game."

"Money isn't skin enough? You don't know what I had to do for that," Rachel says.

"But my guess is 'not much' sweetheart," Frank says. "You're a charming kid, and Daddy's richer than God. I bet you could bat your little eyelashes and get anything you wanted."

"You don't know me," Rachel says.

"Then maybe I should," Frank tells her. "For a personal job, give me something… personal."

"Name your price," Rachel says.

Frank runs his fingers through his hair like he's uncomfortable to be asking, but he asks anyway. "I need a picture," he says.

"I don't do pictures, you weird perv. Something else," Rachel says.

"N-no, like… just a regular one," Frank says. "Of us."

"What for?" Rachel asks, crossing her arms.

"I don't have to tell you that," Frank says. "That's my price. Pay it, or get off my beach."

Rachel sighs angrily for effect. "Fine."

"Fine," Frank says, a little too obviously astounded by her consent.

"Great, I gotta go," Rachel says.

"Back to your bush?" Frank sneers.

"Fuck off," Rachel says, turning on her heel and heading back across the beach to the sound of Frank's muffled laughter.

As thunder rumbles overhead, Rachel wants to kick herself for ever agreeing to Frank's picture. It seems so simple… so benign… but so does everything she doesn't understand. It seems like another innocent gesture… until it isn't. She has no idea what he wants it for, and Rachel _always_ needs to know things—especially things that concern her association with Frank. Maybe he needs it as insurance in case she ever has to rat him out for something. She'll go down as his accomplice and that'll be the end of that. Maybe he's running around telling everyone they're hooking up, and look: here's the picture to prove it. Rachel wants to gag. She's fifteen. Frank is practically Mesozoic. But maybe that means the mass extinction of Rachel's power over him is coming to an end… there's no way for her to know. She wishes she wasn't in such a hurry to get off the beach, otherwise she'd waltz right back up to Frank and give him a proper smack in the face for being his grimy, disgusting self. Wouldn't that be nice? Just to haul off and whack Frank clear across his pathetic, stubbled mug—that'd be the real deal right there.

But Rachel knows she can't go back. She walks with purpose towards the shadows, making sure to steer clear of the bush to avoid any future sniping from Frank about a fucking shrub that she wasn't supposed to appear from. She gets up to the grassy top of a nearby cliff and finds Unknown overlooking the beach.

"You ready to get the fuck out of here?" Rachel asks.

"Since the minute we arrived," Unknown sighs.

"Great—do your weird narcissistic power-trip thing and take us literally anywhere else."

"Why are you like this?" Unknown asks.

Rachel gestures to the clouds rippling with faint lightning strands.

"You wanna talk about my issues now, or should we save it for the gag reel?" Rachel asks.

"Your tone needs work, but you make a fair point," Unknown says, putting her hand on Rachel's shoulder. "Hang on… this might get bumpy."

"It's fine, asshat, I like it rough."

Unknown rolls her eyes and the next second, the two of them disappear from the spot, leaving only a few tall tufts of swaying spiky grass, and an ominous black cloud that slowly begins to dissipate as the two girls fade further and further into the future.

Down on the beach, Frank examines the wad of cash as a light rainfall begins. He looks up at the dark clouds and heaves a sigh. He wonders if this freak storm could be the physical manifestation of Rachel Amber making a very snappy (and foolish) decision to get what she wants—an anomaly if Frank has ever seen one. He chuckles to himself. Yeah, right. But then again, the weather acting as a mood ring for Rachel "the princess" Amber is more likely than a lot of shit he's seen… and seeing unlikely shit is Frank's specialty.

Or maybe Rachel is actually warming up to him, he thinks to himself as he crams the cash into his jacket. Maybe there's some hidden layer in that little twerp that's finally bobbing to the surface… and maybe that layer wants more from Frank than drugs and shady deals.

Frank kicks a pile of sand as he wanders up the hill to his trailer.

Yeah, right, he thinks. The Princess and The Pill Pusher. Wouldn't that be a laugh...


End file.
